


Baker Street Advent 2016

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Advent Calendar, Advent Wreath, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Cake, Christmas, Christmas Cards, Christmas Carols, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Creche, Fairy Lights, Father Christmas - Freeform, Flu (influenza), Football | Soccer, Gen, Gifts, Gingerbread Houses, John's Jumpers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Père Noël - Freeform, Reading Aloud, Saint Nicholas Day, Santa's grotto, Sheep, Sibling Love, Siblings, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Wands, Winter Solstice, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 27,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: Twenty-five holi-days of Siger, Miranda, and Rosalind and their parents.





	1. Day One: Christmas with Siger and his sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Advent!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been either to Saint Mary's or to Saint Cyprian's. Someday I would like to, just because I had to look them up for this series of stories. Any flaws or inaccuracies in their descriptions are due to my overworked imagination.

Christmas was coming!

Daddy had taken them all to church last Sunday. Even _Père_ , who almost never went to church. Mrs. Hudson went too. She came to church with them sometimes, but she prefered Saint Mary’s because she had a hip. Siger had helped her up the stairs at Saint Cyprian’s.

Inside the church there had been an evergreen wreath, and candles. The candles were a lovely blue. But Daddy hadn’t liked those. “Blue for hope” he said, “instead of purple for the coming King.”

Mrs. Hudson said, “I like the old ways. But things change, and we must live with that.”

Daddy said, “Not always” with that look he got sometimes.

 _Père_ laughed. “Do you want me to take the children to the park, John? While you do whatever-it-is that you feel needs adjusting for the season?”

The park had been nice, if drizzly. They didn’t feed the ducks. Siger ran all about exploring, because _Père_ did not care about his clothing. “The stains will come out, John, or they won’t,” had been his response the last time Siger had gotten grass and mud stains on his knees. Siger tried hard to remember those words, so that he could use them the next time he got busy in the dirt. He liked to have a response ready for Daddy.

Mrs. Hudson leaned back on a bench, eyes closed, while she rocked the pram where Miri and Ross were asleep. They were babies, and they slept an awful lot. Someday, Daddy told him, they would be big enough to play with him. For now he played around them on the floor. He could build with his blocks on the backs of their rompers, and then they would move. They were not really crawling yet. Siger would watch to see how long it took for the towers to fall down.

After Siger had run enough to feel that he’d accomplished something, he began to look about for his father. _Père_ often disappeared. Mrs. Hudson was there on the bench, so Siger was not worried.

He was following _Père_ ’s footprints in the grass and mud when his father popped out from behind a bush. “Good tracking, Siger,” _Père_ said. Then, “Would you like to see what I found?”

“Is it a dead body?” Siger asked excitedly. Because that’s what Daddy told him to check before going off with _Père_ to explore. Even if Siger liked exploring with _Père_ very much. The second question was, “It is a person’s body?” Because it was alright to examine the dead animals that _Père_ found, so long as they didn’t touch them. And so long as they washed up afterward.

“No, of course not. I don’t know what your Daddy is thinking. Putting those ideas in your head,” _Père_ grumbled. 

That was a funny thought. How would Daddy put the ideas in his head. Would he drip them in Siger’s ear, like when he put medicine in there? He would need to ask. For now, he followed his father into the undergrowth.

There were sticks to step over, and plants all round and dead dry leaves to crunch through. The trees dripped big drops of water on them - Siger could see that _Père_ ’s hair was all wet, so it didn’t have any curls. Siger pointed out tracks from the cats excitedly to _Père_ , and those of a small dog. 

“Good job, Siger, now take a look at this,” and they pushed past a wall of branches to find a small open area. “What do you see?”

What Siger saw was a small pile of wood. He observed that it was wet, and it wasn’t the type of wood that _Père_ allowed for their fireplace. There was a ring of stones, smooth round rocks that were about the size of Siger’s two fists put together each. Inside the ring was a pile of ashes and burnt sticks. There was a long spot, where the dirt was pushed down. A rubbed spot on the branch of one of the surrounding trees, was too tall for Siger to examine well. But he showed it to _Père_ , and was rewarded with a smile. 

“Good job, Siger. We have a campfire, a spot where someone was sleeping, a place where a bag hung on the tree branch, and a pile of very soggy wood. What does this tell you about the person who stayed here?”

Siger was uncertain. But _Père_ had emphasized how wet the wood was. “They could not build a fire, _Père_?”

“Yes! They have been gone for at least two days. All of these signs are like a story, Siger. They tell us about what occurred here.” His _Père_ grinned, and Siger grinned back. He loved learning about _Père_ ’s and Daddy’s jobs to begin with. Sometimes they let him come along. But not the babies.

That was alright, Daddy said. When Siger was small, he was a baby, and he was not allowed to go to places either. Now that he was almost three he could go to more places. And when he was big he could help his fathers find data. Siger loved data. It was everywhere. And everything. 

His _Père_ was checking his mobile. “Time to go home!” he said happily - because _Père_ liked to be where Daddy was - and they walked back to Mrs. Hudson on the bench. Well, _Père_ walked. Siger ran to keep up with his father’s long legs. Some day, he would have long legs too, just like _Père_. Daddy could walk fast too, although his legs were not as long as _Père's_.

The walk back to Baker Street seemed longer than the walk to the park. Siger was tired. _Père_ was pushing the stroller, and Mrs. Hudson could not carry Siger anymore, because she had a hip. Siger had asked Daddy about it, because Siger’s stuffed skeleton, which had all of the bones in a human - and Siger and Daddy and _Père_ and Mrs. Hudson were all humans - had two hips. 

Daddy explained that Mrs. Hudson had two hips, but that one was bad. Not a mean hip, but it did not work as it should. So Mrs. Hudson could not carry him anymore. Because Siger was growing up to be a big boy.

That was sad. But at least Daddy and _Père_ could pick Siger up. When he wanted to be picked up. Because he was old enough now to know his own mind about that, _Père_ said.

Daddy was waiting on the stoop for them, and after bringing the pram inside, he helped carry Miri upstairs, while _Père_ brought Ross. Mrs Hudson walked slowly behind Siger, who was not as fast on the steps as Daddy was. 

Daddy had tea set out on the sitting room table, in the white china teapot, and with all of the special dishes. That meant this was a special tea. There were currant rocks, and small sandwiches, bottles for the babies. In the center was a wreath of evergreen, with candles sticking up. Three were purple, and one was pink. While _Père_ and Mrs. Hudson were giving the babies their bottles, Daddy struck a match and lit the first candle, one of the purple ones, that was across from the pink. “Purple,” he said, “For repentance, not for royalty as I thought.” 

_Père_ reached high and brought down the special black book that Daddy kept on the top shelf, where babies could not reach it. He handed the book to Daddy, and Daddy began to read some words that Siger did not understand. _Père_ was quiet, but he was not in his Mind Palace. So he was listening too.

After that there was tea with milk and sugar in it, a small sandwich with fish paste in the middle, and one of Aunt Harriet’s Currant Rocks. Siger was not going to complain about not understanding if he was able to have a special tea with it. He would ask Daddy to read it again at bedtime. 

That night, as they dimmed the light in the nursery, Siger asked, “But what does it mean, Daddy?”

“It means,” said John Watson to his son, “that God was announcing that his Son was coming to the earth. That the time we celebrate the birth of the Christ child is coming. It means that it is almost Christmas.”


	2. Day Two:  Fairy Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it's a tradition!

“Alright, Siger,” Sherlock Holmes told his son as he examined the file from last year at this time, “We must prepare for Christmas. And the first thing we do is to put up the fairy lights for Grammy Hudson.”

“Because Grammy Hudson has a hip. And she can’t put them up herself,” Siger said to his father.

“Precisely! Which is why Daddy gets the ladder out and puts the lights up!” Sherlock said in that especially joyful voice that he used when blackmailing his partner into doing something for the children that he knew John could not possibly refuse.

John Watson, hauling the ladder from its place in Mrs. Hudson’s storage closet, growled, “I swear, Sherlock, that next year you will be doing this by yourself. I can always go upstairs and relieve Bert of baby duty.”

“Nonsense, John! Just look at how excited Siger is for this experiment!” Sherlock was almost bouncing up and down.

“It’s a tradition, Sherlock, not an experiment,” John said as he set up the ladder, making certain that the legs were locked. He turned to look at his son, who was wearing a Christmas jumper that Sherlock had bought. It was, therefore, lovely, highlighted Siger’s hair and colouring, and cost more than the entire outfit that John had worn to work today. Siger’s trousers matched Sherlock’s black tailored set, though John knew well that he would never see Sherlock Holmes in a Christmas jumper. Instead, the taller man was wearing a burgundy button down that looked incredibly handsome on his spouse.

“Siger,” John said, “Would you like to help _Père_ untangle the fairy lights, and hand them up to me?”

Siger would be thrilled to help with the fairy lights. He was not so much a dab hand at untangling though. This year setting the line of lights in the cup holder hooks from previous Christmases took a lot longer than it had before. They outlined the doorway to the outside, Grammy Hudson’s doorway, and spiraled up the evergreen wound bannister to the second floor. While John was hanging the lights, Sherlock showed Siger how to trade out one of the bulbs to enable the string to blink. Siger was awed and enthralled, and nothing would do but that Daddy had to set all of the lights to blinking.

“Daddy,” he asked excitedly, “May we put some fairy lights in the nursery?”

There were enough left over to travel around the tops of the walls in the nursery. And even though Siger was a big boy, and didn’t need a night light, he went to sleep that night with the fairy lights blinking on and off, reminding him that Christmas was on its way.


	3. Day Three:  Baking with Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson, Siger, and Bert share some baking time.

One thing that Bert Tran - obstetrics student, and _au pair_ to the Holmes family - loved to do was watch Mrs. Hudson and Siger bake. He loved it because he did not have to help. He didn’t have to measure, or stir, or clean up. He just had to be there, an invited viewer. He did also get to taste, which was an excellent part of this.

It wasn’t that Mrs. Hudson could not handle Siger on her own either. She was perfectly fine at handling the children. And if she could not lift Siger anymore, Siger was more than capable of clambering up onto a stool, or into a chair, or wherever he needed to be. 

Bert was just invited. And so he came and kept the pair company, and ate companionably ate the biscuits or other treats that were offered.

Today Mrs. Hudson said, “I think we’ll try cut out today, Siger, as you’re old enough to help me with those.”

Both Bert and Siger washed their hands at Mrs. Hudson’s sink, dried on the cheerful Christmas tree shaped tea towel, and made themselves ready to listen. Mrs. Hudson washed her own hands, and then opened a pasteboard box that rattled. Carefully she lifted out tin biscuit cutters. There was a donkey, a camel, an angel, and a star. “These” she told them both,” were cutters that my mother gave to me when I was about your age, Bert. I use them every year since I came home to England. Frank wouldn’t have me baking biscuits. It was too hot in Florida for baking, he said.”

Bert knew that Mrs. Hudson’s husband, Frank, had been executed by the state of Florida in the United States for the crime of murder. That bit was not, of course, mentioned in front of Siger.

Bert liked how Mrs. Hudson read the basic biscuit recipe out loud to Siger, before they set out the ingredients. Measuring, and adding and mixing, the boy and the woman who was the closest he had to a grandmother put together a stiff biscuit dough before Mrs. Hudson floured up her hands and the rolling pin to roll out the dough to a quarter inch thickness on the floury counter. 

Bert wondered why Mrs. Hudson always used the skillet to smack intruders instead of the heavy marble rolling pin. Possibly because a dented frying pan could still be used, while a dented or chipped rolling pin would be pretty much useless.

Once the dough was rolled, Mrs. Hudson dipped the cutters in flour, and allowed Siger to slice the tin edges down into the cream coloured biscuit dough. He cut out a score of donkeys, camels, and angels. 

Mrs. Hudson pulled the extra dough from around the cut out figures, then slipped a lifter under each one to transfer it to the flat metal sheet. Palming the remnants into a ball, she rolled it out again into a flat expanse for Siger to cut. This time, with the smaller amount, the boy cut out stars, fitting the three inch cutter into a pattern that took up a surprisingly efficient amount of dough.

When the biscuits sheets were filled, the short, older woman put them in front of Siger and Bert, along with a bowl of chocolate bits, walnuts, silver balls, cinnamon hearts, and sprinkles. “Alright, Siger, and you too, Bert, decorate the biscuits before we put them in the oven.”

Well. This was fun. And not something that Bert had ever done before either. He set to work with his small charge to put eyes on the camels, donkeys, and angels, smiles made from setting sprinkles end to end, and decorating each raw biscuit until they were just right. It was nice, he thought, to be included in this. At home, at the restaurant, he had never decorated the desserts. His second sister was the artistic one. And he had to admit that there was something different about creating food for your family compared to cooking for the patrons at the restaurant. His parents, and his grandparents and uncles and aunts, were not likely to let him meddle in the food. They had fun. Of course they did. But it was a different kind of fun, because cooking was not just their livelihood, it was their passion. Something that Bert would not ever have for cooking.

When the timer beeped, and Mrs. Hudson pulled the sheets from the oven in her mitted hands, the biscuits smelled wonderful. They looked different, for the dough had puffed up a little as it baked. The cinnamon hearts had melted into the cookie, smearing a little around the edges. A few of the silver balls rolled off the eyes of the camels as she set the tray down onto the cooling rack. “Let them cool a bit, and then you can each have one to taste-test,” She told them.

Siger took an angel. Bert selected a camel. Biting the head off, he savoured the combination of flour, sugar, vanilla, and the walnut taste of the camel’s eye. Siger was already surveying the sheet of camels and angels and donkeys as Mrs. Hudson lifted each biscuit off onto the cooling rack to finish “resting” as she put it. “No more for now,” she told Siger, waving a finger. “There will be plenty for after your supper.”

Siger helped Mrs. Hudson clean up the counter, the floor - where a little, just a little flour had spilled, and, standing on a stool, wash up the measuring implements, the utensils, and the biscuits sheets. Bert found himself volunteering to dry with one of Mrs. Hudson’s bright terry cloth towels. 

When Siger selected a biscuit each for himself, his Daddy, and his _Père_ , but "Ross and Miri are too young," he told the two adults. Bert chose two to take down to his room for later that night. He had a study date. The thought that those biscuits would be waiting for him afterward was a pleasant thought.


	4. Day Four:  Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas songs can be sung at any time, actually.

The sound started upstairs. John and Sherlock were downstairs in their bed, sleeping soundly, when Miri started to cry. She had a distinctive, thin, wailing and anguished way of crying. They heard it through the monitor, and each was steeling himself to go up and handle it before she woke the others, when a soft sound came through the monitor, and Miri’s crying cut off.

In the darkness of the upstairs room, “Silent night, Holy night,” Siger was singing softly to his baby sister, “all is calm, all is bright.”

“You used to sing that to him as a lullabye,” Sherlock from his comfortable queen-sized bed under the warm duvet, and next to his comforting and warm-as-a-furnace husband.

“Yes,” John said sleepily, as he turned over to face his tall, spare spouse. “I didn’t think he’d remember the words though.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled in the darkness. “I used to listen to you on the monitor. When you sang it to Siger.”

“Ah,” John said startled. “Do you think we need to go up?”

They lay there, cuddled close, face to face, listening, until Siger was finished with his song. His treble voice came through clearly over the monitor, “Good night, Miri Cat.” There was a sound that might have been a kiss. And then it was quiet again.

“No,” Sherlock said as he settled himself spoon fashion into John’s body. John draped an arm across, and then they both went back to sleep.


	5. Day Five: Siger gets game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's weird watching your children grow up and wondering if they will like anything that you do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited, and something important added. As it will come up again eventually.

John had invited Greg Lestrade over to watch the match. That meant that Sherlock had to leave. Sherlock leaving was part of the arrangement, as he was not keen on football, and tended to make unkind remarks during the game that were distracting, as well as pissing the two fans off.

Because this was a special date, as Sherlock kept calling it, between John and Lestrade, that meant that John was not responsible for taking care of the children during that time. Sherlock had, of course, tried to get Mycroft to babysit, as he was in the midst of a series of experiments on fatty livers and their effect on poisons ingested. To be fair, he was doing this with rats, and the rats were not being kept in 221B at all. Mrs. Hudson, Alice Brown, and John had all protested. And so Sherlock had found someone somewhere else who owed him an immense favour, and he was stuffing the rats in another venue.

But he had to be the one feeding and tending to the rats, as the person loaning him the venue refused to do so. Siger had gone to help him several times, and was a very good helper, considering he was three, but the girls were becoming mobile, and that would not do in a heated warehouse filled with cages of rats with just Sherlock to mind them.

Mycroft was unavailable, and so Sherlock had talked Bert Tran into skiving off when he should have been studying. And now Sherlock, Bert, Miranda, and Rosalind were heading for the zoo as soon as the rats were taken care of.

Siger had asked if he could stay home with Daddy and Uncle Greg to watch the match. If Siger had any doubt of his welcome in doing this, it was washed completely away by the brilliantly happy grin that Daddy gave to him when Siger asked. “Of course, Siger!” John said, “We would love to have you watch with us. But it’s a long game, and a little complicated.”

“For heaven’s sake, John, he’s not an idiot. He’s perfectly capable of watching a match with you and Lestrade,” Sherlock had said as he pulled on the tan leather gloves he was currently wearing with his black Belstrade coat.

Siger ran upstairs to get his stuffed soccer ball, dug out of the pile of plush items in Miri’s crib. He didn’t play with it much, as Miri had commandeered it, and liked to drool on the plush. His Dad has put out his football shirt this morning, and was wearing his own, even though “their team” was not playing. Uncle Greg’s was, and when he arrived, carrying a paper sack filled with snacks and beer, it was an arrival draped in the Arsenal colours.

“Hello, Siger,” Gregory Lestrade gave him a grin.

“Hallo, Unka Greg!” Siger chirped, and held up the plushie football. 

“All ready for the game, I see!” Uncle Greg said, which gave Siger a thought. Daddy must have texted Uncle Greg. Or Uncle Greg had inferred it from the clothing, and the fact that Siger was there, while _Père_ and the girls were not. Uncle Greg went on, “So who are you rooting for in the match, Siger?”

John Watson stuck his head in the door from the kitchen, to involve himself in the conversation. “Anyone playing Arsenal,” before he disappeared back to continue setting up the vital supplies required for an afternoon of watching football on telly.

“Daddy’s got a bee in his bonnet, doesn’t he?” Greg gave Siger a wink before carrying his tribute into the kitchen.

That gave Siger something to think about. He knew that Uncle Greg did not actually mean a bee. Nor one of Siger’s rubber bees, which he still played with sometimes. He was not frightened of bees, but just to be sure he went into the kitchen to ask. Uncle Greg was leaning against the counter drinking out of a brown bottle. Daddy was moving things about on a platter, as though they were not going to be disturbed as soon as he brought it into the sitting room. “Daddy,” he asked, “Do you have a bee in your bonnet?”

Gregory Lestrade choked. “I forgot how literal they are at this age” he said as he mopped up his precious Arsenal shirt.

John Watson laughed. “Just you wait, Greg. Soon enough you and Mycroft will have one, and then you'll see. Siger, he meant that I have a prejudice against Arsenal. And he’s right, isn’t he, sweet?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking it might be nice to take Siger to an actual game. As a Christmas present. Instead of that set of drums, you know,” Uncle Greg gave Siger a sideways smile. Siger knew that Uncle Greg was not going to get him a set of drums. That was a joke. Still, Uncle Greg had taught him how to bounce a drumstick on the bottom of a tin, and it made a really interesting noise when he did so.

Daddy gave Siger a cocked headed look, like when he was measuring something without the tape. “Do you think he’s old enough, Greg?”

“When did your parents start you on footie, John?” Uncle Greg asked.

John laughed, “I was there as a mere infant. Dad used to wrap me up and take me along to the local games. Maybe it is time to get him started. Siger, would you like to go to a football game with Uncle Greg?”

Siger’s head nodded so hard he thought it might fall off. To go out on an adventure! And with Uncle Greg! “Will Uncle Mycroft go with us?” he asked.

Greg looked startled. “Well, I will ask him if he wants to go. He might have other plans. But he’s welcome if he would like to join us. Is that alright?”

It was perfect! Siger shouted, “Yes!” and ran into the sitting area to kick his soccer ball about until the game started.

Greg looked at John. “Well, we’ve got Siger’s Christmas gift sorted, then. You okay with it?”

John waved a hand. “I always thought I’d take him to his first game. But, yeah. It’s okay. Sort it out with Mycroft and let me know.”

As he carried the food out to the coffee table, he could see Siger chasing after his ball. More than time, he thought, to start taking his son out to the park and teaching him a few bits and pieces of the game. At the next nice day, he promised himself.

And if Siger fell asleep halfway through the game, in spite of John’s and Greg’s whooping and jumping around, it was still the beginning of sharing something special to his Daddy and Unka Greg.


	6. Day Six: Santa's Grotto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Saint Nicholas Day! Hooray!

Siger Hamish Holmes was explaining to his sisters, Rosalind and Miranda, about what they were going to see that day at the Santa’s Grotto. “Now, do not be afraid, Ross Love, and Miri Cat, because we are going to a special place today!”

Rosalind was gumming on one of Siger’s rubber bees, but he was being nice and not grabbing it back. Big boys did not grab toys from their sisters. Daddy said that. 

_Père_ told him that they hid their pirate treasures where the sisters could not find them. Until their sisters were ready to join the pirate band. Miranda was cooing at her bear. She sounded just like the pigeons at the park, Siger thought.

“Are you all dressed, Siger?” their Daddy asked as he packed the diaper bag. 

Siger was incredibly pleased with himself, because he no longer needed nappies. “All dressed, Daddy!” he lifted his feet up, “except for shoes.”

“Why haven’t you put your shoes on?” John Watson asked as he put in an extra emergency teething ring - they had not needed one yet for the girls, but you never knew when that might start. Also, Sherlock had insisted. Sherlock insisted on a lot of things for the babies that John did not believe they needed. But if they had packed one for Siger, they were packing them for Ross and Miri.

“I don’t know where they are,” said Siger, who had looked around the top of his bed for the tiny trainers usually kept in the bottom of the wardrobe.

His Daddy stopped to give him a look. “Look for them, Siger. You know where they’re supposed to be.”

And surprisingly enough, they were exactly where Siger had put them the night before. Siger showed the shoes to his sisters once he discovered them. “Tada!” he said.

“I wish I knew where you got that phrase from,” his Daddy muttered, “I don’t use it. Your _Père_ doesn’t use it.”

“Mr. Phillips the Postman says it to Grammy Hudson,” Siger told him, even though Siger was sure that Daddy had not meant him to hear the question.

“Really?” Daddy sounded astounded. Miri and Ross laughed at Daddy. They thought that just about everything that Daddy did was funny.

“ _Père Noel_ ," Siger went back to telling Ross and Miri, “sits on a big wooden chair. It has a red soft cushion, just like his clothes. If we are good, then we can sit on _Père Noel’s_ lap, and Daddy will take our picture to give to Grammy Hudson, and to Uncle Mycroft. “

Siger continued with his lecture, “Now we must not cry. It would hurt _Père Noel’s_ feelings. An’ then we won’t have a photograph for Grammy Hudson’s refrigerator, or Uncle Mycroft’s mantle piece.”

John Watson turned to his partner, Sherlock Holmes, who was standing in the doorway listening. “Did you tell him that? I don’t remember telling him that. Where does he come up with these things? No answer? Of course not. You’re storing that in your Mind Palace, aren’t you?”

Sigers and Miri’s and Ross’s _Père_ finished his memory work before responding to his spouse. “Of course I am. And Siger comes up with these himself. It’s all part of Siger’s development, John.” _Père_ was laughing at Daddy again.

Daddy rolled his eyes. “Our little parrot. That’s what you are, Siger.”

“No, Daddy. I am Dread Pirate Holmes! Not the parrot!” insisted his son.

 _Père_ held out his long thin hand, “Well, Dread Pirate Holmes, shall we go and beard Father Christmas in his Santa’s Grotto!”

“ _Oui_ ,” Siger said as he took his father’s hand.

And the entire procession proceeded. With Siger, his Daddy, and his _Père_ pushing the perambulator with Miranda and Rosalind each holding their bears (Snow White and Rose Red), with Bert Tran and Mrs. Hudson following behind.

 _Père Noel_ did not go down well with Ross and Miri. Miri started to cry as soon as they wheeled the pram to the grotto. Ross, when presented with the roundly padded man in red, grabbed hold of his beard, which was, unfortunately for him, real and not spirit gummed on, and would not let go as she tried to stuff the long threads of wispy white into her mouth. 

_Père_ tried to get the beard from Ross. “Rosalind! Let go! You don’t know where that beard had been!”

Daddy was hushing Miri, “There, Miri Cat, it’s alright, your daddy has you.”

Siger explained to _Père Noel_ , “This is Rosalind Love’s and Miranda Cat’s first time to visit you, _Père Noel_. I visited last year. They are just babies, and they are learning to behave.”

“Is that so?” _Père Noel_ responded, wincing as Ross yanked again. “Your sister has quite a grip, hasn’t she?” 

“She does,” Siger agreed, having experienced Ross’s fingers in his own hair. “She is not trying to hurt you. So we forgive her, because she is a baby.”

Siger went on, “And Christmas is about a baby. So we should all be forgiving. Because the Baby Jesus was born on Christmas Day.”

“Got it,” _Père Noel_ reassured Siger.

“Got it!” crowed Sherlock Holmes as he loosened Ross’s fingers from the now quite sticky beard.

“Got you,” crooned John Watson to his little girl, Miranda, as she leaned her blonde head against his coat and hiccupped. 

The picture that was hung on Mrs. Hudson’s refrigerator, and on Mycroft Holmes’s mantelpiece, that year was taken by Bert Tran while all of this was going on. In it, John Watson is cradling a red-faced, tear streaked Miri, Sherlock Holmes is prying Ross’s fascinated hand away from Father Christmas’s beard before it goes back into her open mouth, and Father Christmas is leaning sideways to mitigate Ross’s grip, but he’s listening to Siger, explaining to _Père Noel_ the meaning of Christmas.


	7. Day Seventeen: Ugly Christmas Jumpers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because they are just about everywhere right now.

John started it all by posting a photograph of himself wearing the Ugly Christmas Jumper that Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and the thoughtful people at the Met had given him last year after Sherlock had destroyed his stock of jumpers. He entitled the post “Merry Christmas to you all!”

There was feedback, a good deal of it actually. John did not pay all that much attention to the comments, except to check that they were not offensive, or in need of answering. Still working locum in a surgery, very occasionally - as in he subbed when they were desperate. With three children in the house, there was not a lot of time to spend on his blog lately. Currently there was more than enough detective consultancy work to support their larger household, and to pay the expenses of the agency, as well as to put a bit back for the future.

Or perhaps he started it all months before that when he helped an elderly neighbor who had fallen while trying to carry groceries up her front steps. Her cries for help had been heard by a young professional who lived downstairs from her, and who had sent his daughter for Dr. Watson. John suspected that Mrs. Brewer had broken her hip. He sat with her while they waited for the ambulance, and kept her immobilized and calm. Mrs. Brewer had been very grateful, but after John’s diagnosis was found to be accurate, had given up the flat and gone to an assisted living establishment after getting out of hospital.

Not long after the “Merry Christmas” blog post, a package arrived for John in the mail. “What exactly is that supposed to be?” Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade asked the doctor as they sat down together for a pint of lager.

“What? This?” the doctor gestured broadly at the hideous jumper that adorned his torso. The sleeves were rolled up, as they were much too long. The body of the item was too long as well, and it fit John like a tunic. The neck fitted John well enough, but was a shawl collar, and seriously out of style, as were the long cuffs and hem. The yarn use was not only awful to look at, a melange of greens and reds, of purples and golds, of blues and silvers, but there was a cacophony of strange and twisted shapes knitted into the hideous mauve background. “It’s my new ugly Christmas Jumper.”

“Where the hell did you get it? It’s Godawful, John. Compared to that thing, the one that Donovan got you is a work of art,” Greg hauled his eyes away from the travesty, and sought the lovely amber of his beer in grateful relief. He took a refreshing drink.

After a moment’s thought, and no quick response from John, he looked over at his friend with suspicion lighting his face. “There is no way that the kids gave that to you. Not without help. Though I wouldn’t call it help. Even I wouldn’t do that to you.”

John laughed and took another pull of his lager. “No, the children did not “buy” this for me. Nor did Sherlock, although he told me that this was without a doubt the most horrific garment I had ever dared to assault his eyes with. And that, if I wanted to play that game, he could find one even worse. But he didn’t want to destroy our friendship.”

“That’s a relief,” the police officer said before taking another drink. “What are those things supposed to be on the front?”

“The Excesses of Christmas,” John laughed. “Ugly Jumpers are on there.”

“So,” Lestrade clarified, “It’s a supremely ugly jumper that shows the worst excesses of Christmas consumerism, one of which is Ugly Jumpers?”

“You’ve got it!” John sounded a bit proud. 

“It doesn’t look comfortable. Sort of tight in the wrong places. What is it made of? Polyester?” Greg Lestrade did not touch the sweater. Men don’t do that, after all. Not unless they are tailors, and even then not out on a night at the pub. Thinking that he was grateful that Mycroft’s sweaters were all supremely soft, he took another look at John’s sweater to try to suss out which was the figure signifying Ugly Christmas Jumper.

John gave him a raised eyebrow. “This was a gift from one of our neighbors, Greg. She knit it herself. From a proper pattern that she found. For being there when she had a medical emergency. And now when she asks if I wore it, I can tell her I had it on when I was out for a beer with a mate.”

“Ah,” Greg Lestrade blessed departmental rules that prevented police from accepting gifts.

“Sherlock refused to be seen with me in it. He insisted I use Mrs. Hudson’s back door to exit the building. And that with my parka over it. And walk at least a block before trying for a taxi. He gave me money for the cab too, so that I wouldn’t be seen with it while taking the tube.”

“Oh,” Greg commented neutrally.

“Miri screamed when she saw it,” John said offhandedly while looking sideways at his friend.

Greg Lestrade snorted into his beer.

“Thought that would make you laugh,” John said with contentment.


	8. Day Eight:   Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would the holiday season be without sweets?

It is well known that Sherlock Holmes has a sweet tooth. He puts entirely too much sugar in his coffee and tea, and takes a good deal of pleasure in consuming sweets and pastries in front of his long suffering brother, Mycroft, who is valiantly attempting to control his weight after a childhood spent being tormented over chubbiness. Not by Sherlock at first, of course. Sherlock had originally thought that Mycroft was perfect. Sherlock aspired to be just like Mycroft. But Sherlock was not ever going to give up sweets. Not ever.

Until Siger was born. At first this was not a problem. Because Sherlock was an adult, and Siger was an infant, and that was all there was to that. Except that infants grow. They become toddlers, who are much more aware not only of the world around them, but of the past, the present and the future. Babies live in the now, mostly. Toddlers begin to think about what happened in the past, and how it affects them in the future. And then toddlers grow to be older, and wiser, little children. Who watch their parents not just to mirror them, but also to question. 

Siger was a questioner. He asked questions about everything. He asked about what they were eating,and why. After all, Sherlock had explained these things to him while feeding him as a baby. It was second nature now to want to know why it was important to eat sprouts, when Siger did not think they tasted all that good. Or why couldn’t they have the cookies that he and Grammy Hudson had baked as a main for dinner? Even more important, why was _Père_ eating an eclair and not sharing it with Uncle Mycroft.

Siger had gotten his “ar” down now, and Uncle Mycroft was immensely pleased at this. But now Siger was also noticing how his father and his father’s brother interacted. _Père_ was good at sharing with Siger, and with Daddy for the most part. He did not really have to share with Miri or Ross as yet. Uncle Lestrade shared with Uncle Mycroft, and Daddy, and with Siger, but not with _Père_. Siger found this all very puzzling.

Daddy told _Père_ , “Oh, no. This one you have to explain to him yourself.”

But _Père_ had not explained it. _Père_ was actively avoiding explaining it. 

So Siger asked Uncle Mycroft. “Why doesn’t _Père_ share with you?”

He could see that question startled his uncle. Uncle Mycroft said, “Siger, I have no answer for you. That is a question you must ask your _Père_ .”

So Siger asked _Père_ again. And _Père_ pretended to be in his Mind Palace so that he did not have to answer Siger. “That is bad, _Père_ ” he told him, and climbed up on his _Père's_ stomach and sat on it to look down at the eyes that were now examining him instead of looking away.

“Fine,” _Père_ said to Siger. “Your Uncle Mycroft and I had an argument a long time ago. We have continued to have arguments, and will probably continue to do so. So I do not share with your Uncle Mycroft.”

Siger thought about that. “Uncle Mycroft wants to eat sweets,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” _Père_ told him, “Your Uncle Mycroft wants to eat all of the sweets. Every single one of them.”

Siger looked startled. “Then why does Uncle Mycroft not eat the sweets when we have tea?”

 _Père_ huffed at him. Usually _Père_ huffed at Daddy, not Siger. “Because,” _Père_ said, drawing it out, “If he ate all of the sweets, then he would be become the size of a house. Two houses. Bigger than he already is.”

That gave Siger something to think about for a while. _Père_ allowed him to do so. Siger looked in his _Père's_ eyes that were so very like his own and said, “Uncle Mycroft is not as big as a house. He is not even very big. Uncle Mycroft is skinny.” Siger had learned that word from Grammy Hudson, who worried about Sherlock’s weight.

Sherlock Holmes heaved a great sigh. “Would you like to see a picture of Mycroft from when he was fat?” he asked.

Yes. Siger would like that very much. There were albums that inhabited the top shelf of the book case. Siger was not allowed to handle them, but on some occasions _Père_ or Daddy would reach them down and share the photographs with Siger. Someday they would share those with Ross and Miri as well. Daddy had said so.

Now, his _Père_ reached a long arm up over his head, and pulled an album down. “We will have to sit at the table,” he told Siger, giving the boy time to prepare for his _Père_ sitting up on the couch. Siger slid down into his lap. The album was placed on the table, and _Père_ knelt on the floor next to it, with Siger still on his lap, but turned around now, so as to see the book instead of _Père_.

 _Père_ paged through, looking for a specific picture. Opening the album flat on the table he allowed Siger to examine the two photographs, one on each of the two pages. The colours had faded on both of the photographs, but there was still enough to see the vivid red hair of the man standing beside his dark-haired wife in the first picture, their two boys in matching navy blue suits standing in front, and a bright, happy looking Irish setter lying at their feet. 

One boy was small, and thin, and had his dark hair slicked back on his head. He looked mutinously at the photographer. The other boy was taller, older, with red hair, and a very much plumper build, and his smile for the camera was shy. His roundness did not look at all like Uncle Mycroft, whom Siger tended to think - with his pointy nose and all - resembled the stick insect from the London Zoo.

“That is _GrandMère_ and that is _GrandPère_? Who is that?” Siger asked pointing at the red setter.

“That,” _Père_ told his son, “Is Redbeard. He was Mycroft’s dog first, and then he was my dog. We loved him very much. But when Uncle Mycroft went away to school he could not take Redbeard with him.”

“Is that your house?” Siger knew not to touch the photograph, but he pointed at the sparkling Christmas tree behind the family. Off to the side was a table holding a Christmas village made of gingerbread.

“Yes, on both pages,” his _Père_ told him. 

Looking at the other page there was a photograph of the two boys in pajamas, and Redbeard in what looked like a nursery, playing with a large wooden pirate ship. Mycroft was grinning at his little brother, who was brandishing a wooden sword.

“Uncle Mycroft changed,” Siger said.

“Yes,” and this time _Père_ sounded sad when he said it, “Mycroft changed.”

“I do not think Uncle Mycroft is mean, _Père_ , “ Siger said thoughtfully.

“He certainly can be, Siger,” _Père_ warned, “He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet.”

Siger digested that. “But he loves you, _Père_ ,” he pointed out. “And he loves me, and Miri and Ross. He told us so.” he continued. Then he added, “And he loves Unka Greg, even if he did not tell us so.”

“I don’t know where you are going with this, Siger,” _Père_ said far less waspishly than he would have with anyone else. “Do you think that because he loves us, we should let him eat sweets? Because he has worked very hard to lose that weight. And he does not want to regain it.”

Siger leaned back against his _Père_. “You love Uncle Mycroft. And so you don’t give him sweets.”

“Not to eat,” Sherlock Holmes pointed out, as the family had given Mycroft a unique marzipan Christmas ornament last year, and planned on doing it again this year. Of course, he did still eat them in front of his brother. One must have some fun, after all.

"You love me, and won't let me eat too many sweets," Siger said, "Because they will make my body sick."

Sherlock Holmes examined the red-coloured curls of the offspring in his lap. He held on to the sigh this time, because this was an important point that Siger was making.

“So,” reasoned Siger Holmes, “We should share something with him that he won’t want to eat, and we won’t eat, but we will have fun with.”

Which is how Mycroft Holmes received a call that afternoon, and ended up at 221B Baker Street building a gingerbread house with Siger under the somewhat less sarcastic oversight of his little brother Sherlock. Greg Lestrade and John Watson, as well as Miranda and Rosalind, spent the afternoon barricaded by baby gates from the kitchen. The gingerbread cottages turned out a little bit lopsided, with the icing dripping down the eaves. They made six of them. The boiled sweet roofs, by the time they had finished paving them with swirling red and white peppermint candies, were not appealing to any of the bakers (although Sherlock had eaten his share before Siger caught him at it).

Tea that day was food from Sherlock’s second favorite Thai restaurant, which delivered. And Mycroft and Greg took one of the cottages home to sit on their mantelpiece next to a photograph of Mir’s and Ross’s first Father Christmas.

The second of the six took pride of place on the sitting room mantelpiece next to the evergreen clad skull, while a third was put on display in the nursery - above reaching fingers. A fourth went to Mrs. Hudson, then one to Alice Brown, and the last took over a shelf in the office down in 221A.  
None of them got eaten, which was just as well. 

The three bakers had put too much salt in the gingerbread, which was tough, and largely inedible. The sweet memory of the two brothers and Siger working on their creations lasted many years longer than the gingerbread cottages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have never found Gingerbread houses to be edible. Not even when I was a child.


	9. Day Nine:  Christmas Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The children receive their Christmas cards from the church!

Siger was wildly excited by the thought of receiving mail. With Christmas approaching there had been an influx of personal correspondence in the form of Christmas cards, which he was given the responsibility of opening. As he was not allowed to open the big front door, he had taken to visiting Grammy Hudson at about the time so that she could turn the brass knob and pull the door for him. 

Mr. Phillips, the postman, appeared at the same time every day. He was a widower who was perfectly happy to flirt with Mrs. Hudson when she was home. Today the door was opened before Mr. Phillips could slip the packet of mail through the slot, and a bright face beamed up at him from the threshold. “Hello, Mister Phillips!” Siger shouted.

“Afternoon, young Master Holmes,” the postman smiled down at Siger, then over at Mrs. Hudson who gave a flirty wink from behind the little boy. “Plenty of mail for you today. Can you hold it all?” the older man said as he proffered the rather large pile of envelopes - Christmas cards, bills, and inquiries for the consultancy - and packages.

“Do you have anything for me, Mr. Phillips?” Siger asked hopefully.

“I do! For Siger Holmes! But I have a question about the household. Do you know a Miss Miranda Watson? Or a Miss Rosalind Watson? Because I have mail for them, and I didn’t recognize those names,” the postman asked seriously.

“Yes! Miss Miranda and Miss Rosalind are my little sisters, Mr. Phillips!” Siger said excitedly. “And they got mail?” Turning to look at Mrs. Hudson he asked, “May I help Miri and Ross open their letters?” 

“Of course, Siger. Until they’re old enough to open them themselves,” Grammy Hudson told him. 

“Tada!” Mr. Phillips produced three very similar envelopes with some panache. “I expect that I can entrust these to you, and give the rest to your Grammy?”

“Yes! Thank you, Mr. Phillips!” Siger accepted the post cheerfully. He waited for Grammy Hudson to take the remainder, and hopped up into the house with the three Christmas cards clutched in his hands.

While Grammy Hudson sorted through the pile, Siger climbed the mountain of steps that lead to the sitting room. Unfortunately, the baby gate at the top barred his way. Siger thought about being big. He thought of climbing over the gate. He had, however, promised his Daddy that he would not attempt it. Siger had no desire to break his neck. That sounded bad, even though Daddy had not explained what happened when a neck was broken.

Siger did not think he could climb, in any case, with the three cards in his hands. He listened to Grammy Hudson below, shuffling letters. There was a soft dragging sound, as Miranda hoisted herself along the wooden flooring through the doorway from the sitting room. She and Rosalind were not quite crawling yet. They did manage to move though. Miri was usually rolling. Sometimes Siger rolled with her across the sitting room carpet. Ross would laugh at them, but she was usually too busy trying to pull things from the table to explore with her mouth. This sometimes made the laughter a trifle muffled.

Miri rolled sideways to sit up with a small grunt. Siger knew she could not open the gate. That was the point of a baby gate, after all. His sister gave a soft coo, as she often did when Siger and she spoke. “I have a letter for you, Miri Cat,” Siger told her. “I think it may be a Christmas Card.”

She bubbled at him, “bbbbbb”.

“Yes, I have one too!” Siger said, “and there’s one for Ross as well.”

“Ffffffffff,” Miranda told him. Then she rolled over onto the small carpet of the landing, and burbled at the lofty ceiling.

Siger looked thoughtful, “Well, yes, Ross will put them in her mouth if she can. She likes to put things in her mouth.”

Slow steps mounted the staircase behind him. “Siger, dear,” Siger could never get Grammy Hudson to remember that he was “sweet”, “Move over and I’ll open the gate. You just stay right where you are, Miranda dear.” 

Siger supposed that they were all dear, then, and he should just get used to it. He moved over for Grammy Hudson to open the latch, and carried the cards carefully in through the gate. Not waiting for Grammy Hudson to re-fasten it, he said, “Come on, Miri,” and ran past her into the sitting area of 221B.

Daddy was sitting on the floor trying to get Ross to learn the sign for bottle. Miri knew the sign, and so did Ross, but for some reason Ross never used her signs around Daddy. She usually got Miri or Siger to translate. Siger didn’t mind. But Daddy didn’t like it. And so he would spend extra time working with Ross on her signs.

Siger waved the three envelopes, “Daddy! Letters for me, and Miri, and Ross! I’m goin’ to open them!”

Grammy Hudson followed him in with a handful of cards, and an armful of wiggling Miri. “Here’s the rest of the mail, John dear. Quite a number of Christmas cards today. “ She put them on the counter in the kitchen, but Siger was concentrating only on the precious cards for Miranda, Rosalind, and him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John Watson smiled up at their landlady. Waving Siger over he asked, “Do you need any help, Siger?”

“No Daddy,” Siger said as he settled down next to his father. “This one is mine. It has an ‘es’,” and he showed the envelope to John.

John watched as Siger made a mess of the envelope to get at the card inside. The head full of red curls bent over the picture of a baby laid in straw under the light of a star. “This is pretty,” he said as he showed it to his father, then to Grammy Hudson.

“Lovely, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said as she put Miri down next to Ross on the carpet.

“Which one is Miri’s, Daddy?” the little boy asked, showing the remaining two cards.

“This letter is an ‘em’,” John said pointing to the first letter of Miranda’s name. “And here is an ‘ar’” and he pointed to the first letter of Rosalind’s.

Siger scrambled over to where Ross was sitting and trying to fit her chubby little fist into her mouth. “Ross!” Siger said excitedly, “Here is a card for you!” He made as much of a mess of that envelope as with his own. 

Ross grabbed for the pieces of paper, but when Siger held the card in front of her face, saying, “Look Ross, at the pretty card,” she caught it and stuffed it into her mouth. “No, Ross,” Siger told her, pulling the drool soaked paper from her mouth and hand, “The cards go up on the book shelf!”

Rosalind Watson squawked at her big brother, but he held the card above his head and out of her reach. Miranda Watson rolled over to them, and bumped against her sister, giggling. That set Ross Watson giggling as well. 

Siger, who was straightening out Ross’s card, looked up and smiled. “Daddy,” he said to John, “Ross’s card is crumbled.”

“That’s alright, Siger, sweet,” John took the mashed and drool soaked card and placed it up on the shelf with other cards they had received.

Siger took the last envelope and disposed of it with a bit less frenzy, and a little more skill born of practice. He held the card for Miri to see. She said, “Bbbbb,” and then giggled at her big brother.

“Daddy,” Siger said with surprise as he looked at it closely, “All of our cards are the same!”

“Yes, Siger,” John told him, “They were from the church. They send out the same card to each child who is a member.”

Siger blinked at his father. Then he handed both Miri’s and his cards up for John to put on the shelf with Ross’s card. 

“Siger, do you want to help me practice signs with Ross and Miri?” John offered.

“No, Daddy. I have something to do,” Siger told his father. He went to his shelf in the sitting room, opened a plastic box, and took out a packet of paper and some crayons from it. 

When Sherlock Holmes walked in the door to the sitting room, he was met by a cozy scene. His spouse and their two daughters playing on the floor, and his son seated at the coffee table concentrating furiously on his task. Sherlock dispensed kisses all round, then sat down on the carpet next to Siger. “What are you working on, Siger?” he asked after kissing the top of the curly haired head.

“I am making a card for Miri, and a card for Ross, because the cards were all the same and they should have their own,” Siger said as he moved the green crayon over the piece of red construction paper.

"Their cards?” his father asked for clarification.

Siger pointed up, toward the top of the book shelf. Sherlock, had taken in that there were new cards upon his entrance into the room, but had not paid much attention beyond that. He now stood and went to examine the trio of identical cards. Without commenting, he returned to Siger. “Show me,” he said to his son, “What you are making.”

Ross’s card was red, and had a series of straggly looking stick figures standing on a green mass in the center. Miri’s card had a curl of white crayon centered on green construction paper. “Tell me,” Sherlock Holmes directed, “What these pictures depict.”

“This,” Siger told him, pointing to the sticks around the green mass,” is Daddy, and _Père_ , and Siger, and Miri and Ross. And this is the Christmas tree.”

Pointing at the white circles on the field of green he told his _Père_ , “And this is a sheep. Because the shepherds said ‘hello’ first.”

Miri, who was at a messy stage, gave her big brother a sloppy, wet kiss when he showed her the card he had made for her. Ross tried to grab hers. “No, Ross. Daddy will put this up on the shelf with the others. But I’m glad you like it. Even if you want to put it in your mouth.” And he gave her a kiss. Then it was Miri’s turn.

And then _Père_ held Siger up so that he could put the new cards up on the Christmas Card shelf.

 

“


	10. Day Ten:  A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft watch the children for an evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fond of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. If you have not read it, and given free rein to your imagination on what happens to the main character in the story, please find time to do so.
> 
> There are also many good versions of it available on film.

Greg Lestrade had watched every version of _**A Christmas Carol**_ by Charles Dickens that was available on DVD with his husband, Mycroft Holmes. If there was a production of the epic Christmas story available, his Mycroft would purchase it. This went for any of the plays of William Shakespeare as well. 

Mycroft loved language. He was a master of it. He gloried in long and sensuous wording. And refused to admit that he enjoyed a good pun now and then. “Really, Greg,” he said to hide his enjoyment, “A pun? The lowest form of humour!”

Which is why Greg usually found himself watching Mycroft instead of the movie when they viewed the Muppet version of the tale. Because, while they were ostensibly sharing it with Siger (and Miranda and Rosalind, but they had fallen asleep long ago), Mycroft was laughing with his nephew at the puns, and all around silly stuff.

Greg found it beautiful. It was gorgeous to see the man he loved open up with their nephew, Siger. 

In a little under four months, they would be bringing home their own little bundle of joy. The understanding that the gifts they shared with Siger now, and with Ross and Miri, would be even greater when shared with the little girl, biological daughter of Greg, egg donated by a well-researched stranger, and carried by a surrogate - but their child completely - lifted Greg’s heart.

The dvd of the growing baby (via sonogram) lay on the top of the dvd player. Greg and Mycroft had viewed it at least a dozen times, and were waiting to show it to Sherlock and John when they came to pick the children up. The baby was shy, but Greg was certain it was a little girl.

Siger asked a question, looking up at Uncle Mycroft. “Yes, Siger,” Mycroft answered him. “That is an electric light. And they would have used gas in that time period instead, as your father told you. But remember, the Muppets are giving a play. So they would be using anachronistic items. Sometimes it is alright to have something incorrect, if it furthers the plot, or allows the play to proceed. Your father was, in all likelihood, jesting about a movie being made with gas lighting.”

That satisfied the three year old, who went back to the film. Mycroft glanced over at his spouse. “You’re not watching the film,” the tall, thin man commented quietly.

“Nah. I’m watching you instead. It’s rewarding,” Greg grinned.

Mycroft made a wry face at his husband, then returned to viewing the film with Siger. He watched the rest of the movie with a happy smile that Greg did not think came from enjoying the puns.


	11. Day Eleven: Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the living Crèche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ties in with a story in the Thirty Days of Sherlock, as it is the day before the chapter entitled "Comfort".

“Sheep,” Siger explained to his sisters. They were both secured in the double stroller, while Siger, who was of course the older brother, was free to walk. This usually worked until it was time to go home, and then Siger wanted to be held. Sometimes there were problems with being a big boy.

Miri bubbled at him, while Ross examined the woolly creature with drooping eyes and leaned sideways until her head rested on the canvas side of the stroller. She closed her eyes.

Siger was concerned. Ross was always excited by animals. Even _Père’s_ rats were fascinating to her. Meanwhile he answered Miri. “Yes. Sheep say ‘bah’,” and Siger gave a surprisingly good imitation of the sounds coming from the pen. Miri began to talk, not to Siger, but to the sheep. The sheep’s concentration was elsewhere, but that did not stop her. Siger did not feel the need to translate for the sheep.

The five (Siger was proud he had counted them earlier) of them were visiting a living _Crèche_ because Daddy was letting the bee-in-his-bonnet move him to share the pink candle, “It’s for the shepherds, not just for ‘hope and joy’, and the blue candles that the acolyte lights in church.” Daddy was now staring, but Siger could not see anything there. Daddy was also leaning against the grey, weathered wooden fence. 

Siger left the babies and wandered to his _Père_ , who was in discussion with a short, dark man with a cloth on top of his head. The cloth was striped, and held on with a tie knotted in a circle, and the man kept shifting it. The striped robe he wore did not match the cloth on his head. Siger could tell that the man did not feel comfortable in those clothes. He pulled at the neck, revealing the navy polo underneath. Denim trousers peeked from under as well. Sturdy books shuffled in the straw strewn ground.

“David used his to slay a bear, son,” the older man was telling his _Père_.

 _Père_ was eying the thick, knotted and curved stick the man was holding. “It would certainly be handy in a fight if one knew how to use it,” _Père_ said thoughtfully.

“This one caused a few deaths in its time, as many a shepherd’s crooks has done. It has a history, has this crook,” the man pointed out, eager to share the old tales.

“ _Père_ ,” Siger said, reaching up his small hand to his father’s long, thin one.

“Yes, Siger?” His father looked down.

“Ross is sleeping. I think Daddy is too. His eyes are closed, but I don’t think he is praying,” Siger told him.

 _Père_ looked over at Daddy, who was still leaning, but his head was down now.

“You will have to excuse me, Mr. Knott, but I need to get my family home. May I get in touch with you to continue this interesting discussion? Thank you!” and _Père_ tucked the proffered card into the inside pocket of his Belstaff.

They walked past the stroller, where Miri was still talking to the sheep. Siger noticed that the sheep were not paying good attention. _Père_ put his hand on the upper arm of Daddy’s woolen jumper. “John?” he asked.

Siger’s Daddy opened his eyes and blinked up at _Père_. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, “I think I may be coming down with something.”

“You and Ross,” _Père_ told him. “I thought you got your flu jab.”

“Must be a different kind of bug,” Daddy said, “Sorry to cut the afternoon short. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes, Mr. Knott was most interesting. For now, let’s get home.”

 _Père_ waved his hand, and a taxi stopped. Siger was used to this, as taxis always stopped for _Père_ , but rarely for Daddy. “Let’s contain the contagion,” _Père_ said to the world at large, as they all bundled into the back of the big black car.

After supper and bathing, Siger and Miri were put to bed, but _Père_ left the fairy lights on when he went down the steps. Daddy and Ross were sleeping in the bedroom downstairs, and _Père_ would be on the couch. So they would not all get sick with what Daddy and Ross had. Ross had been crying when they got home, and Siger could hear her downstairs fussing.

“Poor Ross,” he said out loud, “She didn’t get to see the sheep.”

Miri was sitting up in her crib, but she didn’t say anything. She was waving her bear, Snow White, showing her the fairy lights.

“Miri?” Siger sat up too, “Where is Lambkin?” Lambkin had been Siger’s stuffed sheep. But Miri hoarded all of the plush toys she could get her hands on. The only reason that she hadn’t confiscated Siger’s violin was that he took very good care that it was out of her reach.

Miri was ignoring him. So Siger climbed out of his bed, and into her crib, looking for Lambkin. His stuffed sheep was not there. Climbing back out Siger began to search the room - the toy chest, under the cribs and his bed, and under the dresser. He was so busy searching that he did not hear the footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Siger? What are you looking for?” _Père_ asked, silhouetted by the hallway light.

“I can’t find Lambkin. I wanted to let Ross sleep with him” Siger said miserably.

 _Père_ picked him up, and carried Siger downstairs. There was an orange blanket on the sofa, and a pillow on one end. They passed through the sitting room, and _Père_ opened the door so that Siger could look inside. Daddy was asleep, snoring, under his covers. Ross was tucked up beside him, her deep breathing not quite a snore, and she was holding tight to Lambkin.

 _Père_ closed the door quietly, and when they had walked back to the sitting room he said, “Miranda gave Lambkin to Rosalind while you were in your bath. I think she had to look through that great pile in her bed to find him. She made it very evident that she needed to go downstairs to her sister.”

Siger nodded. That felt right _Père_ carried him up to bed, and said, “Rosalind took hold of Lambkin, and stopped crying right away. Tomorrow Daddy and your sister will go to the doctor and get checked out. They’ll be alright.”

Siger was tucked into bed again. “ _Bonne nuit, Père. Je t'aime.”_

“ _Bonne nuit, Siger, mon cœur. Je t’aime._ ”


	12. Day Twelve:  Patients, and Christmas Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, almost everyone has the flu. But there are still things they can do together, Pere and Siger.

Sherlock Holmes was not, by nature, a nurturer. With John and Ross both ill, he had spent his day rushing up the stairs to get fresh clothing for the baby, and down the stairs to request that Alice Brown order items for delivery, and then back up again.

Siger was playing quietly with Miri in the sitting room, helping her to build castles with the periodical blocks, and then deconstructing them in interesting fashions. In spite of the fiary lights, the evergreens, and the Christmas cards, the room did not look Christmas-y. Rather it looked as though a cyclone had hit it. Orange shock blanket on the couch, with a dented pillow on one end, showed that Sherlock had at some point lain down. There were dishes from breakfast and lunch on the coffee table, along with Miri’s empty bottles. It seemed easier to consolidate activity in the sitting area, rather than scattered throughout the house. 

There was an atmosphere of waiting. As all of the adults knew that they would eventually come down with whatever it was that John had caught. Possibly from his patients. Possibly from someone of the criminal class that they’d been in contact with in the past week.

John hated being sick. He lay back against the puffed up pillows - he’d puffed them himself, as Sherlock did not manage to do it to John’s specifications. There was ample pho leftover for him to eat for the rest of the week. It was good, not the calibre of Bert’s mother’s soup, but tasty, and warming.

John was thankful that he was no longer vomiting. Ross, snuggled beside him, was radiating heat, as John knew he was as well. She was asleep again, and they’d done their best to keep her temperature down to prevent seizure or any of a number of reactions infants get to high fever. The Graco was situated at the foot of the bed, but she had asked to be taken out before falling asleep uncomfortably in John’s arms. John was sick, er, bored with Lemsip. He was tired of the bedroom, and yet his eyes hurt if he watched the screen of his laptop. He could not concentrate on even the simplest of thrillers. Too much company fretted him, and otherwise he was lonely.

Sherlock was heading at last for the loo when he heard an awful noise, and then Siger’s voice, “Oh, Miri! Pere, Miri’s thrown up!”

It was only a matter of time. 

By the next day Alice Brown had called off sick. Mrs. Hudson was in bed with a hot toddy and her soaps. Bert was helping with Siger, while washing his hands obsessively. That didn’t help much, as the next day Bert was down with the bug. The medical student holed up in his room with a kettle, his video games, and a plastic bin lined with a Tescos’ bag. His last act before informing Sherlock of his self-imposed isolation was to put a sign on the door. “Closed ‘til further notice”.

“Siger, it is just you and me now,” Sherlock Holmes told his son. Miri had joined her sister happily enough. They were both sleeping together in the Graco, while John was snorting - as Siger called it - in his and Sherlock’s bed.

Siger looked about the untidy flat. He did not feel all that much like cleaning up. Truth be told he was feeling crabby, and achey, and just wanted to sit on Pere’s lap. “Pere,” he climbed up onto the couch with his father, “Will we miss Christmas while we are sick?”

“No. Though we can’t go out, we’ll have to do some of our Christmas shopping from 221B,” he reassured his son.

“Shopping?” Siger said hopefully.

“Yes. Do you suppose that we could find presents for your sisters, and for Daddy?” Sherlock had the laptop open and was typing rapidly.

The little boy craned his head to see the screen. “And you, Pere?” he asked.

“Well, Siger, when your father feels better, and then he can help you to shop for me. How would that be?” Siger thought Pere sounded tired. He nodded agreement, and wriggled until he was on his father’s legs, then settled into his lap. Pere adjusted the laptop to sit on Siger’s legs.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, his fingers had ceased to type. “What words describe what we should get your sister, Miranda, Siger?”

“Soft! Fluffy! Rainbows!” the preschooler cried, and his father typed those words in to the search bar.

“Ooh!” Siger saw all types of toys, brightly coloured. There were stuffed rainbows, but Siger did not think they were right for Miri. And then he saw them. “Boots made of ranibows! Read this one, Pere!”

“New Rainbow books, antislip, for toddlers,” his father raed dutifully.

“May we get these for Miri, Pere?” Siger asked hopefully.

“Not a stuffed animal, Siger? If we get these for Miri, should we get a pair for Rosalind as well?” Sherlock asked.

Siger shook his head, “We can get an animal for Miri too. But for Ross, we should not get rainbows.”

His father hummed against the top of his head, then asked, “What colour for Rosalind?”

“Red!” Siger insisted, “Red for Rosalind!” He waited patiently while his father typed in the order information. There were many letters and numbers. After that his father showed Siger how to press the ‘es’ button to submit the order.

They looked at books, at plush animals, at what his Pere called ‘learning toys’, and selected a board book for Miranda, and a book that could go into the tub with Rosalind. They found a book on bones for Daddy, and a warm rainbow scarf for him as well. 

“Now, for Grammy Hudson,” Siger decided. 

They had enough time while the others were sleeping to find presents for Grammy Hudson, Miss Alice Brown, for Bert, and the new cousin who would be coming to Uncle Mycroft’s and Unka Greg’s house. Afterward Siger helped Pere to get suppers (because they had completely missed tea) of broth and dried toast for Daddy, for Ross, and for Miri. Then Pere made a fry up for themselves. After putting all of their “patients” as Pere kept calling them, back to bed, the pair of them watched a film about bees, which Siger had to go up and find his rubber bees for. Pere wiped them down with a bleach wipe “for sanitation”, before Siger could play with them. And they both had to wash their hands thoroughly after the bees had been wiped.

“It really is hopeless, Siger, because we will both get sick. But by then your Daddy will be back on his feet,” Pere explained, “But we do need to try not to get sick in any case.”

Siger thought it was a good night, watching a film with Pere. And the pair of them fell asleep on the sofa. Siger was sound asleep on top of his father when Pere turned off the telly, and put out the light.


	13. Day Thirteen:  Flight of the Advent Honeybee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These things sort of take their time. As Siger helps his _Père_ take care of the rest of the family.

The day that Siger got sick was the day he played at being a bee with _Père_ , and received a package in the mail. He was downstairs when the package arrived, sitting on the bottom step feeling bad. He did not feel well. Both of his sisters, and everyone else in the household, were in quarantine, and so he was lonely. He was also sad for _Père_ , who was upstairs cleaning all of the linen used by two sick babies and a recovering-ish doctor. 

Sherlock Holmes had also - in a generous and foolish (in his opinion) whirlwind of activity - been down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and Bert’s room to set them up with tea, dry toast, and fresh linens on their beds. Hauling sheets, pillowcases, and duvet covers to the washing machine, Sherlock caught sight of himself, arms full of cotton and percale, in the full length mirror behind the laundry door. Ghastly. Hair standing on end, navy blue button-down spotted all over with who knew what - that was the first thought before his brain ticked on and started identifying each substance, and he’d one of Siger’s rubber bees in his back pocket to sterilize before returning the toy to his son.

Now, where had his son gone? Sherlock found him in the foyer, holding a number of letters, and shouting through the letter box to the postman. “Thank you, Mr. Phillips. We are sick. Grammy Hudson has the flu. Everyone has the flu. Except for me and _Père_ .”

Mr. Phillips condolences were audible, if muffled. Then a packet, square, wrapped in brown paper, slipped through the slot. Siger shouted “Thank you!” again, picked up the packet, and turned to climb the stairs. “Look, _Père_ ,” he said, “A package with an ‘es’ on it! Is it for me?”

“Just let me check those, first,” his _Père_ told him. It was standard procedure that either Sherlock or John checked the mail first to ensure that no one sent anthrax or other disease impregnated envelopes. To be fair, it had only happened once (if you didn’t count Moriarty’s botulinumed gift of Carl Powers’ shoes), but that was enough for Siger’s Daddy to insist on a better level of protection. 

“Why, Siger! You’ve got a packet from Jeanette,” his father told him.

“Flute!” Siger shouted and signed reaching up to take the package. 

“Open it in the sitting room,” his father instructed, before running off to check on Bert and Mrs. Hudson, and take away their trays.

The brown paper had been shredded by the time _Père_ returned, but Siger had saved the knots for his father. “Thank you, Siger,” the detective told his son, before explaining that these were simple square knots. Siger’s _Père_ then demonstrated how to make a square knot before unraveling the ones on the package and handing the gift to Siger.

“Music!” Siger was thrilled.

Sherlock picked up the card that came with the music cd and read, “Dear Siger, I thought of you, and Miranda and Rosalind when I recorded this. Please share it with the whole family. _Joyeaux Noel!_ Flute.”

 _Père_ relaxed on the sofa, and Siger got out his crayons and paper to colour while they listened to Flute’s cd. There were a number of Christmas Carols, including “Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella” with the vocal quartet singing in English, but the album concluded with a flute version of Rimsky Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee. Siger asked his _Père_ to play that bit again, and flew around the room buzzing like a bee in time with the music. Then _Père_ rosined up his violin and played the piece just for Siger, who danced and played air violin as he buzzed around the room.

Finally his father put the violin away. “Come along, Apis Mellifera, and help me get your Daddy’s and sister’s teas,” _Père_ said. Siger buzzed into the kitchen to help.

Daddy was really looking much better when they took his tray in. He was sitting with Ross and Miri on the big bed and singing Christmas carols with them. Well, Daddy was singing, and Miri was humming, and Ross was banging one of the rubber bees on a plastic bowl.

The babies were tended to first, and _Père_ had selected a bright orange jar of stuff to feed to them. Siger had tried baby food when the sisters started eating it, and had not been impressed. Even when his Daddy had pointed out that he’d eaten an awful lot of that himself.

Then _Père_ had lifted the heavy wooden tray onto the bed loaded with small sandwiches, toast, jelly, and teapot under the chicken cozy that Auntie Harry had made.

“What’s this?” Daddy asked, when Siger insisted on messily spreading pink sparkling crabaple jelly from a jar onto Daddy’s toast.

“Royal Jelly, Daddy,” Siger said seriously and offered it to his father. There did seem to be a royal crest on the label.

John Watson looked at his son, and then at his spouse. “Royal jelly?” he said aghast, “I’m not the Queen bee!”

“Jeanette sent us her new recording. Christmas music, but it ends with Flight of the Bumblebee,” Sherlock told his spouse, and ignoring his protest.

“If anyone is the Queen of this Hive,” John Watson told his son, “It’s more likely to be your _Père_ .”

“Or Mycroft,” _Père_ muttered, but Siger thought he was not supposed to hear it.

“Grammy Hudson,” offered Siger, before adding, “But she’s having Indian food. It was delivered while _Père_ and I were in the kitchen.”

After tea they moved everyone into the sitting room on fresh duvets to listen to Flute’s cd before watching Christmas dvds. Miri fell asleep almost immediately, but Ross and Siger’s Daddy paid attention, and didn’t drift off until almost the end. 

All was going well until Siger finally succumbed to the flu, and threw up all of his tea into the plastic bin that _Père_ had set in the sitting room for vomit emergencies. The boy felt awful, achey and hurting, and hot. The only benefit, so far as Siger could see, was that he got to fall asleep that night curled up next to Daddy. After the days of quarantine and staying mostly away from his father and his sisters, it was good to have Daddy hold him again. Siger just felt sorry for _Père_ . All alone under his orange shock blanket out on the freshly sanitized sofa in the sitting room.


	14. Day Fourteen:  Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger is sick, while the others are now out of bed.

Flu might be bad for babies. It is pretty much the worst thing ever for an active preschooler. After a while, Siger tried to climb down off of Daddy’s and _Père’s_ big bed, only to fall and bonk his head on the bedstand. He tried to be brave. He didn’t want to wake Miri up in her Graco at the foot of the bed.

But when Daddy came rushing in, saying, “Siger! Stay in bed! If you need something I’ll get it for you, okay?” Siger found that the tears started leaking out.

“Siger! Sweet,” Daddy picked him up and cuddled him, “What’s the matter? Does it hurt?”

Siger croaked, “Sick,” because he could not sign with Daddy wrapping him up like this.

Daddy laughed, but must have felt Siger stiffening, because he stopped. “Sweet, we’ve all been sick. Except for your _Père_. You need to rest. Let your body fix itself, okay?”

“Boring,” moaned the almost three year old. 

That did make Daddy snort. Though he was not supposed to. Daddy said that laughing when Siger acted like _Père_ was encouragement. And behaving badly, as _Père_ sometimes did, should not be encouraged.

“Tell you what,” Daddy offered, “We’ll set you up in here with my laptop, and you can watch a film.”

“Films are boring, Daddy,” Siger told him, and “They make my head ache even more.”

“Do you want me to read to you? Or do you want your blocks? Or crayons and paper?” John Watson asked his son.

Siger began to sob in his Daddy’s arms. “I’m lonely, Daddy.”

Daddy did not say something foolish, about Miri sharing the room with him. A baby was not always company, and especially not when she was sleeping all the time with the flu. There was quiet for a bit. Siger was okay with that. Because quiet meant, usually, that someone was thinking.

“Siger, sweet, you can’t get up and run around with a fever. You need to stay, resting, because you might fall down even harder. Plus, you need the bucket,” his Daddy told him.

Siger nodded. The Vomit Emergency bucket was crucial. _Père_ had said so.

“How about I wrap you up, and you can rest on the sofa in the sitting room. Ross is playing on the floor, and I’m cleaning up the kitchen. _Père’s_ going through some cold case files to pay Uncle Greg back for feeding the rats while we’re under our, as he put it, self-imposed quarantine.” 

“Alright,” Siger said quietly.

“You let me know if the bright light hurts your eyes, okay?” Daddy started to gather him up, along with the duvet, a pillow, his plush violin, and his plush red blood cell.

When Siger was safely tucked up on the couch, and after he’d gotten a dose of medicine from the alligator medicine spoon, Daddy went back to cleaning the kitchen, which he said he had to do in stages as he was still a bit weak from the flu.

 _Père_ was in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his face, and clearly away visiting his mind palace. Siger realized that he’d not seen _Père_ go to his Mind Palace for the whole time Daddy and Ross and Miri had been sick. 

The boy eased himself around to a comfortable position on the pillow - his head hurt, but also the top of his head, his scalp, hurt too. He was tired. Closing his eyes he listened to the sounds of the room. 

Grammy Hudson must be feeling well, because she was playing Christmas carols downstairs in her flat. Ross was gumming on something, because Siger could hear the wet smacking sound of it. Whatever it was, the item was hard, not soft like his plush football. Siger opened his eyes to check. Yes, Ross had a big plastic spoon in her mouth.

The smell coming from the kitchen, bleach cleaner and soup on the stove, was an awful mixture. Siger was so very tired of chicken soup, as that’s what they’d been making since Daddy got sick. At least whatever Daddy was making was not chicken soup. Siger wished he could be helping in the kitchen.

He was almost asleep when something bounced off of his forehead. Grumbling he opened his eyes to find Ross had made her way across the sitting room’s Persian carpet. Rubbing his head, he found Lambkin resting on top of it. “Thank you, Ross,” he told his sister, “You are a helpful sister.”

Ross just watched him in reply, and then stuck the spoon back in her mouth. Siger fell asleep.

John Watson, tired but responsible, finished sterilizing the kitchen from several days of Sherlock’s manic chemistry disguised as cookery. He was not complaining, as it was just regular type cleaning, and not bio-hazardous or industrial waste recovery. Siger was fast asleep on the couch, curled around Lambkin, the violin, and his new stuffed red blood cell. John had stopped asking where Sherlock and Mycroft found these things.

Waving a hand in front of his partner’s face did nothing but make Ross laugh. So John picked her up from the floor, “Looks like it’s just you and me again, Ross my girl. Shall we go upstairs and tidy up the nursery?” They looked in on Miri before taking the stairs slowly.

When Siger woke up it was twilight. He could hear people in the kitchen, and so climbed down from the couch to pad over and peek in through the doorway. Daddy was trying to feed both Miri and Ross at the same time. Ross was in a spitty mood, and had green babyfood covering her face, the tray, her hair, and parts of Miri and Daddy.

“I hear Siger giggles!” Daddy said, looking over his shoulder. “Are you ready for something to eat too?”

Ooh. No. Siger checked to find the Vomit Emergency bucket.

“No?” Daddy said, “Even a nice cup of tea with ginger and lemon?”

That sounded good on the face of it. Siger thought about it a moment, then nodded his head. 

“Alright, then. Pull up a seat,” and Daddy reached across to click on the kettle.

There was paper on the table, and a pencil, and a list in Daddy’s writing. “What are you making, Daddy?” Siger asked.

“Lists for Christmas,” Daddy said as he managed to get a spoonful of green stuff into Ross’s mouth. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Christmas dinner right now, though.”

No. That would be about the last thing on Siger’s list of things to talk about. He got up, fetched the Vomit Emergency Bucket, and returned to his seat, after carefully placing it next to his chair.

“And that’s a no,” Daddy said, sharing a bit of rusk with Miri. She must be feeling better, then.

“Daddy?” Siger remembered the shopping that he and _Père_ had done while everyone else was ill, “What should we get for _Père_ for Christmas?”

John, who had already ordered two books for his husband, one on a dyslexic spy, and another on the murder of four girls in a yogurt shop, suggested, “Would you like to get him some socks?”

“ _Père_ does not like fun socks,” Siger said thoughtfully. 

“Not as such,” Daddy agreed.

“We should get him sleepy clothing. With bees,” Siger suggested.

“Alright!” John picked up the pencil and wrote on the list. Then he asked off-handedly, “Is there anything you would like, Siger?”

“For Christmas?” Siger asked for clarification.

Upon receiving an affirmative Siger had to think about that. He thought all through Daddy steeping his tea, putting some honey in it, and letting it cool a little before handing the sippy cup to Siger. Siger was not to complain about the sippy cup, as he really found his arms were not working all that well. It was not silent in the kitchen, with John commenting on the food offerings to his daughters, Miri’s humming, and Ross’s lip smacking. But the homely noise was welcoming. Siger finally spoke up, “I think that I would like a skeleton, Daddy.”

“A skeleton?” Daddy asked in surprise.

“For learning the bones, Daddy,” Siger explained.

Daddy hummed. Then he asked, “What type of skeleton?”

Siger answered seriously, “A people one, Daddy. A hee-you-mun one.”

 _Père_ ’s voice sounded from the hallway, “Is Siger asking for a pet now?”

“Where’ve you been?” Daddy asked waving both spoons in the air.

 _Père_ quickly kissed Daddy on the head, took one of the spoons, and started feeding Ross so efficiently that she had no time to spit it back out. “Sorting the mail,” was his answer.

Daddy informed _Père_ , “Siger would like a human skeleton for Christmas.”

“Hmmm,” _Père_ looked thoughtful. “Siger,” he turned and looked at his son, “That might be something that will take some time to get hold of. What would you like in the meantime, while we wait for a skeleton?”

“Music,” Siger told him. He was happy to see that his answer had pleased both Daddy and _Père_. 

“That reminds me,” Daddy said as he flipped on the kettle switch again, “We’ve missed Alice Brown’s cantata this year. She did too, as she couldn’t sing with the flu.”

 _Père_ made a grumbling sound. Daddy turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

Hastily, _Père_ said, “I’ve ordered take-away for supper. Did you have a film you’d like to watch?”

Daddy opened up a new dvd that he had ordered with a violinist and Christmas carols in a concert. Siger sipped his cup of Bovril, as Daddy and _Père_ ate curry. Siger listened with his eyes closed for most of it, but he watched the violinist playing. They never showed what he wanted to see, though, which was how the violinist placed his fingers on the strings. Even Miri perked up at the music, and hummed along with the children’s choir, while Ross banged blocks together from her periodical block fortress on the carpet.

They did not stay up late, as everyone was tired. 

Siger slept in his own bed, and was grateful for it. He listened to the sounds of Miri and Ross - both still a little congested and snoring - in their cribs. The fairy lights were flashing just enough to brighten the room, but not to hurt his eyes. _Père_ had put the Vomit Emergency bucket next to Siger’s bed before he and Daddy had kissed them each good night on their foreheads.

After the hectic days of sickness, the house felt like Christmas again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.giantmicrobes.com/us/products/redbloodcell.html
> 
> Who Killed These Girls?: Cold Case: The Yogurt Shop by Beverly Lowry. https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/beverly-lowry/who-killed-these-girls/
> 
> The Spy Who Couldn't Spell. https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/yudhijit-bhattacharjee/the-spy-who-couldnt-spell/
> 
> Andre Rieu, Christmas Around the World. https://www.amazon.com/Andre-Rieu-Christmas-Around-World/dp/B000I2J7YA/ref=sr_1_1?s=movies-tv&ie=UTF8&qid=1481740174&sr=8-1&keywords=christmas+concert+dvd+violin


	15. Day Fifteen:  Albert goes skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert has a date with a pretty Norwegian. But he's never been on skates before.

Albert Tran had a date. It wasn’t the girl that he was apprehensive about. She, Lily, wanted to go ice skating. Bert had never been.

“You’ll love it, Bert! Really, it’s like flying!” Lily smiled brightly. Then came the list, “Don’t forget to wear warm clothes. Layering is better than anything else. Wear at least two pairs of socks, one over the other. Wool if you have them. Have you got mittens? They’re best. And a wool hat. And the warmest coat you have.”

“Sure. Right. Okay,” Bert found himself saying in a daze. Lily really was someone special. She was smart, and lovely, and a gymnast. And right now he was picturing her in one of those skin tight, tiny skirts one saw during the Winter Olympics.

It was while he was heading home on the tube that he started thinking about falling. Onto ice. Ice was hard. And cold. People broke their arms and legs, and cracked their noggins on ice every year. He remembered his time spent working the A&E. 

On the way back to Baker Street he looked up prices. 10£ to 12£, just to get in. But that included skates. There was one rink that was open year-round. Considering the temperatures in London, Bert found that amazing. It wasn’t like they were in Scotland, or Scandinavia was it?

Siger was playing his stuffed violin on the sofa, wrapped in the orange shock blanket, when Bert came upstairs. John nodded at Bert, gave the children kisses, and was down the steps putting on his coat. “How are you feeling today, Siger?” Bert asked, as he stepped over a minefield of periodical blocks.

“I am better,” Siger said, still husky with the flu. “What are you looking at?”

“Ice Skating rink,” the student said, holding the phone so that Siger could see it.

“What is an ice skating rink?” Siger asked, putting down his plush violin.

“Well,” Bert tried to translate his thoughts clearly, “You put boots on your feet. They have blades on the bottom.”

“Like a knife?” Siger asked.

“Not quite. They’re big enough to support your weight. And then you use them to glide over ice. The rink is big, like a football field, but ice instead of grass,” Bert thought he had gotten it accurately enough. 

Siger put on his thinking face. Miri and Ross rolled over to get Bert’s attention, and he spent some time fetching for them, as they threw large and colourful plastic beads about the room. “Bert,” Siger asked, “Would you show me on my tablet?” The little boy pointed across the room at the table by the kitchen doorway.

Bert looked over. “Why can’t you get your tablet?” he asked. Since he thought that was the actual issue.

“Daddy doesn’t want me to leave the couch,” Siger said sadly. Then he added, “I don’t like the flu.”

Bert thought back to his bout of it, and could not agree more. Fetching the tablet for Siger, he helped by typing “ice rinks london” into the search bar. Siger knew how to tap on “images” in the browser, and soon they were examining photographs of men and women on skates. “Are they dancing?” Siger asked.

“It does look like dancing, doesn’t it,” Bert agreed. He found some videos on Youtube of Olympic skating, and they watched that for a while. Miri and Ross demanded to be up on the couch watching with them, but quickly lost interest. They asked to be put down, and spent the time having a conversation of sounds and bubbles.

Siger sighed wistfully. “I wish I could go skating,” he commented.

“Well, let’s see if I can manage it first, shall we?” Bert smiled and laughed.

Bert switched off child minding duties with Miss Alice Brown, who smiled when he told her about his date. “I used to skate on the pond growing up. Back when it was colder. Wear lots of warm clothing,” she told him, “And don’t break your head.”

“Thanks, a lot!” he told her. After saying goodnight to the children, he put on a tee shirt, a long sleeved shirt over that, and a bright red sweater over both, followed by his coat. He had no long underwear - he’d never needed them, and had to settle for navy blue trousers, two pair of thick socks and his trainers. Dropping the borrowed brown mittens in a borrowed brown woolen hat, he wrapped a black and white striped scarf that Mrs. Hudson had made for him.

Lily was thrilled for their date. Lily had also, Bert discovered, been born on skates, as her family were Norwegian. Balance. It was all balance, he discovered, as he found himself trying to walk, stiffly, across the ice wearing battered brown hired men's skates, topping knife blades on his feet. He started by clinging to the wall of the rink, older men and women in bright sweaters weaving their way in and out of the crowd of children who were taking up most of the space in the center. 

Lily was not wearing an ice dancing costume, but was sensibly dressed in grey slacks and a blue and gray Aran sweater. Her long, dark hair was pulled up in a knot at her neck to show off dangling snowflakes at her ears. Bert found that she was patient, and a good teacher. She had him move at a snail’s pace to a corner of the rink, before telling him to practice falling, there out of the way of the other skaters. Lily, in her own white polished women's skates, kept constantly moving about him on the ice. She was at home here.

Falling was not so very much fun, but Bert got used to it. Even better, Bert stopped worrying about it. Lily didn't seem to mind that Bert was not a perfect skater immediately. She teased him a little, but did her best to coach him. By the time the first couples skate was called, he was ready for a break, and they stopped to drink hot chocolate and watch the mostly older couples promenading, swirling briskly around the rink.

“Are you ready for another try?” Lily asked him with a really very nice smile.

“Sure,” Bert smiled back, “Let’s do this!”

While he did not become an instant champion skater, he did - toward the end - get up enough speed to understand what Lily meant about feeling like flying. Before they left, with the promise to try it again sometime, Bert looked into ice skating lessons for very small children. For when Siger was over the flu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have pictures of myself on skates at 18 months. I haven't been skating in years, and never really did get good at it. But it is like flying. Eventually. When you stop holding on to the side of the rink.


	16. Day Sixteen:  Long Nights of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not all chases and violence.

Picture, if you will, two men sitting together on a couch. The room is darkened, the lamplight does not highlight the charcoal grey of the wallpaper, and its pattern is not evident in the darkness. The white of bone on the wall, and on the mantelpiece reflects what little light there is. Their faces are lit by the screens of their laptops. There is the sound of music from downstairs, where their landlady - who really is more than their landlady - is playing Christmas carols as she bakes for tomorrow’s card party over at Mrs. Turner's.

The smell of scones travels up the stairs, and seeps upward through cracks and crevices in the old house. They know the petite woman will save a plate for them, and for their children. It will be breakfast in the morning.

There are occasional sounds from what looks like a radio - the soft soughing of infant breathing, the coo of a dreaming child, and the creak of their cribs or a twin sized bed. When a sound comes through too loudly, both men turn their heads to listen, then when it is evident that no emergency exists, they go back to what they were reading - each on their own device.

From the street, through the glass panes of the old fashioned windows drifts the busy sound of traffic. It is not late at night, for all that there is darkness. “Tea?” the shorter man, looking soft in an oatmeal jumper, asks his partner.

“Hmm,” the tall man, his hair a mass of dark curls, responds.

The first gets up, setting his laptop carefully aside. He’s been working on a blog entry of their case from two weeks ago. With the ease of long practice, he tips the switch in the kitchen, and fills the kettle from the tap without looking. He is working his way through a phrase that is not quite right, not quite descriptive enough of what he’s trying to say.

He has made tea like this so many times that he’s not aware of the time it takes to steep the orange pekoe, he just accomplishes it. Two spoonsful of sugar goes in one mug, black, with a periodic symbol for one of the noble gases on it. A spot of milk cools the second mug of tea, an RAMC mug that the tea maker has had for years.

Returning to the sitting room, he places the mug where his flatmate can find it, rather than attempting to hand it as the taller man scrolls through crime scene photographs on his computer. Blindly the dark-haired detective reaches for his mug, takes a sip, and makes a humming sound of contentment.

This, so very often, is Father Time. Not some white bearded entity who governs the passage of the fourth dimension - if time is that dimension, but that time when the children have been put to bed, and before, well, one at least, of the men will get up and get ready for bed. At times they both do so. Sometimes the tall man’s transport is given short shrift when a problem is to be solved. It is their time to spend together. As partners. As fathers of their children. Sharing the couch, and going about their regular tasks.

It is later that they will, separately, curl around each other in the big bed, warm under the bedclothes, and warmed by each other’s body heat, or shocked by the sudden coldness of another’s feet against their own warm bodies. And more understand than think about how fortunate each of them is to have found this. To have family. To be able to relax and know that they are, if not understood completely, then accepted.

Christmas is, for some, the end of the year. A time for reflection. A series of moments to deal with loss, to be grateful for the present, and look to the future. The long nights growing longer, until that moment when they start shortening again, preparing for the growth of spring and summer. 

John Watson curled around his tall, dangerous partner, and was thankful for the life he led. He thought of his children, who called, or would call him “Daddy” and looked up to him. Who came to him when they were sad, and when they wanted to share happiness. He felt the smooth skin of his partner against his own. Long octopus limbs that surrounded him, keeping the bad dreams away. And he sank into sleep.

Sherlock Holmes curled around his short, dangerous partner, and was humbled by the life he now led. He thought of the grand experiment that was his children. So much to learn from them. It was a help to The Work, but it was more. He felt the furnace that was the man who kept him right, kept the dreams and the craving away. And fell fast asleep.


	17. Day Seventeen: Crèche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger gets a package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always loved this set that my M.I.L. got for my children. It's solid - near unbreakable, can go in the tub, and is too big for babies to swallow. It passes the toilet paper roll (loo roll?) test of being too big to slide through one.
> 
> Avon does not make them any more, which is sad.

Siger could not remember so many packages arriving at two hundred twenty one with his name on them. The excitement took him and ran him up and down the steps to the nursery, in and out of the kitchen, and through the sitting area, and out to the landing to look over the baby gate, waiting for his parents to come home. The package was sitting down below on the table in the foyer. It was a brown paper package, and although it was not tied up with strings, it was sealed with clear tape. Clearly a box of some type, it was the perfect size for Siger to open.

But Siger had to wait until _Père_ and Daddy came home. They checked all correspondence that Siger was allowed to open. The christmas cards? Even if they were not directly addressed to Siger, it was one of Siger’s chores to open them, and then to place them on the shelf. He could just reach it by standing on the Daddy’s chair.

When naptime came, Bert made Siger come downstairs so that he would not keep his sisters up with his buzzing. Bert had told Siger he was “busy as a bee” and after that Siger dug up his rubber bees and formed a hive in the sitting room out of the orange shock blanket and his Daddy’s chair.

He was listening to Lambkin tell the bees a tale of “days long past”, as Daddy would say, when he heard the big black front door open downstairs. There were voices, Daddy and _Père_ laughing and speaking as they removed outerwear. Their footsteps tramping up the steps were a little heavy. They must be tired. Siger bust from his hive and ran to his Daddy, who caught him up and threw him into the air. “How’s my boy?” his Daddy asked.

Bert looked out of the kitchen, where he’d been cleaning the stove. Lunch had been messy. “He’s been a bee all day,” Bert said.

“What type of bee, Siger?” _Père_ asked interestedly.

“Apis Mellifera, _Père_ ,” Siger told him seriously, and then buzzed a little.

Daddy tossed him to _Père_ , saying, “Why don’t you tell _Père_ about your morning while I get the tea on?”

“Tea for me, Daddy?” Siger asked sweetly as a honeybee.

“Kid’s tea,” Daddy said as he disappeared into the kitchen. Siger could hear him chatting with Bert.

“Did you have a nap?” _Père_ asked, as obviously his sisters were upstairs sleeping. 

“No,” Siger said factually, “Because I was waiting for you to let me open the box.”

“Box?” _Père_ asked, “What box are we speaking about?”

Siger gave his _Père_ a hug, and said into his ear, “It is big enough to hold in my hands, and it is wrapped in brown paper, and it is sealed with clear tape, and it has an ‘es’ and my name on it. It is located downstairs on the mail table.”

“Why yes, I did notice something like that downstairs,” _Père_ told his son.

“It is for me,” Siger said, bouncing in his father’s arms.

 _Père_ pretended to be startled. Then he admitted, ‘Yes, SIger, it is for you and for Rosalind, and for Miranda.”

“And so I may open it!” Siger said, bouncing again.

“And so,” his _Père_ told him, “You may open it as soon as Rosalind and Miranda are awake from their naps. Which you may not wake them up from.”

“Spoil sport,” Daddy told him as he brought a tray in to the coffee table. Setting a small plate out for Siger, he served his son a triangle of fish paste sandwich, one of cucumber, a couple of crisps, and a chocolate caramel biscuit. Into Siger’s mug he poured a bit of sugar, a touch of cream, and filled the rest half way with black tea. “Let it cool, Siger,” he said before sharing out food and tea for _Père_ , Bert, and himself.

Siger took the plate to his hive first, then carefully carried his mug of tea, and with his Lambkin, his violin, his red blood cell, and his rubber bees had a satisfactory snack under the orange blanket draped over Daddy’s chair.

Ross and Miri did not wake up until the meal was over. He heard Daddy say, “I’ll get them,” and was out from under his blanket in a flash. “Now Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

“Give me time to get upstairs and then back down,” Daddy laughed.

Well. That would take forever. Siger climbed up into _Père's_ lap instead. _Père_ was hot. And his scent, which was usually sharp, and smelled like his lab downstairs, was different.

“Are you feeling alright?” Bert asked his father. “You look a little flushed.”

“Just a headache,” _Père_ told them before leaning back in his chair, with Siger cuddled on his lap, “Nothing to worry about.” He closed his red-rimmed eyes.

 _Père_ was asleep before Daddy got back with Ross and Miri. Bert and Daddy gave each other what _Père_ called ‘telling looks’. Then they put the girls on the floor, and Daddy lifted Siger down from his father’s lap. “Well, Siger, it looks as though your _Père_ has caught the flu,” Daddy said. He shook _Père_ awake, and then helped him up and into the bedroom. Siger got to help by finding _Père's_ pajamas. _Père_ put the pajamas on under protest, and then sat in bed with the covers pulled tight around him. Daddy stuck a thermometer in _Père_ ’s ear, “Yup, you’ve caught it at last.” < p/>

“This is ridiculous, John,” _Père_ said grouchily.

“Isn’t it good that you just finished a case. Now you have time to be ill instead of bored,” Daddy told him.

 _Père_ offered, “I’ll be bored AND Ill.”

“If you like,” Daddy agreed, “But you’re not going to get out of bed. Siger,” he turned to his son, “Some assistance? Fetch the Vomit Emergency Bucket, please?”

Siger was delighted to be able to assist. He knew that Daddy assisted a lot. He brought the bright red plastic bin which _Père_ had written VEB on with a marker.

“Wonderful,” _Père_ growled at Daddy.

“May I open the package in here?” Siger suggested, “So that you can see what is in it, _Père_ ?”

“Of course. I’ll just fetch it, shall I?” Daddy said and disappeared through the bedroom doorway. “It’s from Mary Watson,” Daddy said cheerfully when he came back.

“Oh, lovely,” _Père_ said sleepily.

Daddy called for Bert, and they brought Ross and Miri in to witness Siger opening the package like a shark ripping through a school of fish. Opening the box, Siger found a lady in pink, a man in blue with a brown beard, and three men with crowns and beards in blue, orange, and purple. There were also a sheep, a donkey, and a cow, and a plastic painted to look like wood manger filled with plastic straw and a baby. 

Daddy read the card, “Dear Siger, and Rosalind, and Miranda. This is an Avon First Nativity set, which is good for babies as well as big brothers. It is made to be played with,and can go in the tub, as well as be played with on the rug. Merry Christmas, Mary Watson and Jack Watson and Mary Morstan.”

 _Père_ , who liked to explain things said from his place on the pillow with eyes now closed, “It is a _crèche_ set, Siger, Rosalind, and Miranda.”

Daddy washed the set before Siger, Miri and Ross played with it on the sitting room carpet. Which Ross did by putting the purple king into her mouth and gumming at him. Miri waved the donkey about in the air. Siger set the scene up as correctly as he could minus one donkey and one king. Then he had Joseph and Mary welcome the two kings, the cow, and the sheep to their home to see the baby, Jesus.

Siger thought he would try to get the donkey from Miri, who was generally more liberal with toys, only to find that she had disappeared. Crawling around the corner of the couch he could see her lying on her tummy in the hall. She still had the donkey held tightly in her right hand. He watched as she scrunched her knees up to her belly, and then, like an inchworm, slithered her front out. It was not so much a crawl as well, a two part relocation of various bits of her body at a time. Siger, who was an observing boy, watched her make her way slowly in this fashion until she was bumping into Daddy’s and _Père_ ’s closed bedroom door with the top of her head.

Daddy came around the corner and saw Siger watching. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Miri is moving,” Siger told him. Though at this point Miri was more sitting up and patting the door with the donkey.

“Is she now?” Daddy asked and he came over, got down on his knees, and peered around the sofa with Siger.

Miri looked over at them and gurgled, waving the donkey. Then, rolling onto her stomach, she proceeded to inch worm her way back down the hallway toward them.

‘Your _Père_ will go spare,” Daddy commented, “That he missed her crawling for the first time.”

Siger blinked at his Daddy. Daddy heaved himself to his knees. He told Miranda, “Good job, Miri Cat! Let’s put this in your file, shall we?”

After Daddy typed on his laptop for a bit, he went and fetched the camera. Miri was no longer crawling, she was sitting next to Ross and had traded the donkey for the purple king, who was now waving in the air. Siger played with the _crèche_ set, acting out the story for his sisters, and notified his Daddy when Miri went off crawling again. Daddy got a very nice series of photographs of the whole process, which he showed to Siger before sending off in a text message to _Père_ .

That night, after bath, after kissing _Père_ goodnight in his bedroom, and before lights out, they set the nativity scene up on the dresser in the Nursery. Daddy read to them from the Christmas story. The Holy family looked cheerful and comfortable in the shine of the fairy lights, as Siger went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how long this link will last, but here's the set. http://thumbs.ebaystatic.com/images/g/dSwAAOSwiYFXIUnu/s-l225.jpg


	18. Day Eighteen:  Flu and Fretting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Influenza in the household. And now it's Sherlock's turn.

Sherlock Holmes was not a good patient. Along with fools, he did not suffer limitations to his transport well. 

Over the past two years - once Siger began to actively notice that Sherlock was not eating while on a case - the consulting detective began to take in the most modest possible amount as a positive example for his son. In the course of those two years he had gotten acclimatized to eating. Or, say rather, that his transport had. 

Now he had the flu. Flu was a condition where the body rebelled against food. Sherlock, who was the last of the household sufferers - for even Alice Brown had called off sick for the most part of the week - and had handled all manner of bodily fluids for the time the flu had taken to travel through his family. Now the viral infection had laid him low. His stomach, still lurching slightly unsteadily, hypocritically growled displeasure at the hollowness inside. 

He was still a little feverish, and so John had refused to allow him out of bed. His huge, comfortable, Johnless bed. Well, not so very comfortable. The heat and shivers made the crisp cotton of the sheets uncomfortable, the duvet too heavy. Of course, moments ago it had all been too cold.

His stomach growled again. He wished John were here. Not for John’s love, or company as such. But because Sherlock wanted to take out his unhappiness on someone. Long suffering Dr. Watson would do nicely for that. For one thing, he was wearing that eye sore of a blue plaid shirt that Sherlock hated. Sherlock ruminated on the words he could use to thoroughly piss John off.

John, who had abandoned him in this darkened, suffocating room, while the family enjoyed a lovely, companionable lunch together in the kitchen. Sherlock could smell the savoury aroma of chicken soup, could hear the vague rattle of utensils, and chatter as Miranda talked around her bottle, and Siger explained some no doubt fascinating bit of data that he’d discovered while his _Père_ , was immured in bed, flu-ridden, and alone. There was banging - Rosalind waling away with her bottle against the hard plastic of the tray on her high-chair.

That was suddenly silenced. Laughter crept down the hall and under the thick wooden door to him. Possibly Miranda singing that Christmas song she’d learned from Mrs. Turner’s tenants. At twelve months she really did not have either the tune, or the sounds correct. It being in German to begin with.

To his horror, Sherlock felt himself tear up. This really was too much. Where was John with his lunch so that Sherlock could take out his frustrations? No cases. Not even cold ones. Lestrade refused to allow the consultant access. He claimed that Sherlock would infect the files. As if he was a computer virus tainting online storage. Paper files, for heaven’s sake! And John had said his eyes needed to rest. He had taken Sherlock’s mobile away. What nonsense. They were just ganging up on him for some unfathomable reason of their own.

The wooden bedroom door creaked open and a serious little sprite appeared, moving slowly, and carrying a plate topped by a slightly sloshing bowl that steamed and gave off a savoury aroma. Sherlock’s stomach growled.

Oh. Well played, Dr. John Watson! “Siger,” Sherlock croaked, acknowledging the small boy paused in the doorway. 

“ _Père, je vous aide_!” the little boy in rather more a stage whisper than an actual one.

Sherlock sat up in bed, shifting the down pillows to support his back. “ _C'est le déjeuner, mon cœur?”_

 _Oui, Père._ Siger carried it carefully, and handed it up to his father.

“ _Merci, beaucoup!_ ” Sherlock found that he could muster enthusiasm for his son. And under the little boy’s watchful eyes he raised a spoonful of the mixture to his lips. The soup was flavourful. He was hungry. Sherlock ate all of the broth, to Siger’s great satisfaction.

When the flu patient rested the soup spoon in the empty bowl, John Watson popped his head ‘round the door like a genie from a bottle. “All done, then?” he asked.

“It seems to be staying down, John,” Sherlock told his spouse.

“Very good,” the doctor said as he stepped past the door with a tray. 

Tea. No milk, of course. But there was honey! Sherlock felt a smile bloom on his face in spite of himself. He examined the tray set on his lap happily as John assisted Siger to climb up on the bed. “I thought you’d like a little company with your tea,” the short, blond-haired man said. Then he climbed up to join them. “Bert’s here to watch the girls for a bit.”

They listened to Siger explain about honey badgers from a nature program he’d been watching. Then Siger fetched an extensive crayon drawing, which he told _Père_ , said “Get well soon, _Père_!” Siger had even allowed Ross and Miri to help him make it.

John Watson, wearing a familiar oatmeal coloured jumper, winked at his partner over his own cup of tea. All was right with the world. Sherlock would be over his flu bout soon enough. But until then, he had John, and Siger, and the girls to take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ _Père, je vous aide_!” = "Father! I am assisting!"
> 
> “ _C'est le déjeuner, mon cœur?”_ = "Is that lunch, my heart?"
> 
>  _Oui, Père._ = "Yes, Father."
> 
> “ _Merci, beaucoup!_ ” = "Thank you very much!"


	19. Day Nineteen:  Christmas Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get a bit of action. No, sadly, not that kind of action. More the running about after criminals kind.

Sherlock Holmes was bitterly angry. “How stupid do these goldfish have to be?” he exclaimed in frustration.

John Watson was patching up the knife slice to the consulting detective’s arm. It wasn’t deep, but it was nasty. Stitching was necessary. John was precise and neat in his sewing. Danger removed the tremor. They were pinned down by a maniac with a rifle. Dangerous enough.

“Is Greg on his way, then?” he asked as he finished the last knot. 

“Any minute now,” Sherlock told him. Then banged his head back against the plaster wall. “Why do they always call ‘round to let people know they’ve used their tiny minds to figure out who the villain is, before putting themselves directly into the line of fire?”

“I don’t know anyone like that,” John said, “Not at all!”

“That’s different,” his partner said loftily, “I don’t call.”

John chuckled briefly before another gunshot went off across the hall. “No,” he said, still laughing, “You text me. Without telling me where to send the police.”

“And yet,” Sherlock smiled at his doctor and blogger, “You always manage to arrive in time, like a knight in shining armour, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be a knight at this time of year, would it?” John packed his kit as another gunshot echoed through the abandoned building.

“What else would it be?” Sherlock asked. “At least,” he pointed out, “The elf got away. Father Christmas was going to torture her before he murdered her. Just like the last three.”

“Aaand now he’s shooting at us,” John pointed out. 

“To be fair, his modus operandi has always been knives, not guns, John,” was the response.

“Stalking is one of the ‘twelve crimes of Christmas’”, was John’s reply as he eased back against the wall next to his partner.

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. He told John, “All twelve of those crime spikes are clearly associated with the ridiculous consumption of the ‘season’, and forced familial togetherness.”

Sliding his head to rest on John’s shoulder he added, “And hideous holiday jumpers.”

“What do those classify as?” John asked with humour.

“Visual abuse,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Are you okay?” John’s concern bled into the question.

“My transport is failing me,’ mumbled the dark haired detective. 

“You’ve just had the flu, Sherlock. And it looks like you’re not totally over it,” his doctor said, brushing the curls from a pale forehead.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

“What?” John listened, and in the distance he could hear the panda sirens dopplering closer. 

“John?” Sherlock started, coughed, then said, “Father Christmas is sneaking up the back stairway.”

Dr. John Watson cursed and rocketed forward. He slammed the door open, catching the long barrel of the rifle against the wall. Leading with his left fist he knocked a stout figure in red trimmed with fake ermine backward down the stairs. By the time the murderer tried to rise, John had his hands zip tied behind his back. 

He heard Sherlock speaking to Lestrade on his mobile, “Just come on in. John has the murderer well in hand.”

In the taxi, on the way home to Baker Street John told his partner, “Please don’t tell Siger that Uncle Greg arrested Father Christmas tonight. Please?”

“Don’t be foolish, John. But as soon as he learns to read, he’s going to know exactly what we’ve been up to. You do realize that?” laughed the man sitting next to him.

John Watson thought about all of the cases he had written up and groaned. 

Sherlock Holmes smiled at him, and said, “It will be interesting to hear your ideas for the title of this little adventure. What will it be? The Father Christmas Murders?”

That sounds about right, John said contentedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2011/dec/01/12-crimes-christmas


	20. Day Twenty:  Christmas reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading Christmas books at bedtime.

Siger and Rosalind and Miranda had a bookshelf in their tiny upstairs nursery. For some reason they were almost all hard covers, some of them in gorgeous bindings. The books were lined up, spines facing out, and were shelved in the order in which they had been read. Which meant that whatever _Père_ or Daddy or Bert or Grammy Hudson, or whomever put them to bed at night chose to read went to the far left of the shelf. Books on the far right and bottom shelf tended to be books that they had never read, that the children were not old enough for yet, or that the adults did not care to read. 

It did not work particularly well. When Daddy was very tired of reading _**Fluffy Saves Christmas**_ , - the tale of a hamster taking Father Christmas’ (or in this case, Santa Claus’s) place to save the day - he might try to hide it far over to the right so that Siger would (supposedly) not see it, and select it for reading that night. This rarely worked. If John Watson hid the book somewhere other than the bookshelf, then bedtime was disrupted, as they all must search until the book was found. Not necessarily because Siger wanted to read it. Siger liked to know where things were. Because if they did not find it, then he would think about where the book might be instead of listening to the book they were reading. Then, of course, since they had expended so much energy in finding it, Siger suggested, they might as well read it as one of their books before bedtime.

 _Père_ tended toward distraction as a tool. He would stand flashy and interesting looking books on top of the bookshelf - generally on subjects that he wanted to read about, or wanted Siger to learn. This worked on occasion, especially when something had occurred around Siger during the day that touched on the subject. When it did not work, Siger would pat his father on the knee and consolingly say, “We can read that tomorrow morning, _Père_.”

Currently Siger was the one who chose the books. Before he had been old enough to express a preference, it had been Daddy’s or _Père’s_ choice. Once in a very great while Siger would ask, “What would you like to read tonight, Daddy? (or _Père_ )”. Generally, though, Siger did the selection.

In all fairness, Siger did choose books specifically for Rosalind and Miranda each night. Usually. Ordinarily.

Right now he wanted to hear Christmas books. There was _**Father Christmas**_ by Raymond Briggs, as well as _**The Snowman**_ by the same author. There were Christmas books for Kipper, for Lucy and Tom, for Spot, and the Jolly Postman. Siger’s Daddy’s favorite was a Robert Ingpen illustrated version of _**The Wind in the Willows**_. His Daddy insisted on reading the “Dulce Domum” chapter each Christmas. Miranda’s favorite was _**The Christmas Story**_ , written and illustrated by Brian Wildsmith. Even at a year she would trace the intricate pictures with a small finger, and whisper softly to herself. Ross liked Kipper, and Spot, and any other bright coloured, boldly illustrated book. She did not much like books that had the little details that Siger loved so much.

 _Père_ often chose to read _**The Cat on the Dovrefell**_. It was a tale out of Norway, of trolls and a hunter who had captured a great white bear, and a Christmas night that none of those involved would ever forget. Siger thought _Père_ might like it because the trolls played a fiddle when they rioted in the poor woodman’s home. _Père’s_ tales, like those about the _Julnisse_ , or Old Befana, told about Christmas in foreign lands that celebrated differently from Siger’s home in London. He also read in French, which Daddy did not. _**Babar and Father Christmas**_ , and _**Le Noël de Jojo**_.

Tonight he was reading _**How the Grinch Stole Christmas**_ by Dr. Seuss. It was in English. _Père_ was reading the Grinch’s words with a deep rumble, and very sneeringly. Siger approved. He loved when anyone read to him. _Père_ did the voices just right. Daddy did the voices right most times. But not always. Grammy Hudson never got the voices right at all. 

They were all seated against the wall, legs across Siger’s big boy bed. Daddy was holding Ross and Miri, who were watching _Père_ from the side with big eyes, fists stuffed into their mouths. Siger was sitting on _Père’s_ lap. 

_Père_ read, ““And he, he himself...the Grinch...carved the roast-beast!”

They examined the black and white and red of the illustrations. Daddy said, “Well, that’s it. Time for bed, Miss Ross and Miss Miranda!” and bustled the babies off to their cribs.

Siger asked _Père_ , “What is ‘roast beast’?”

They went back to look at the picture of the creature on the platter ready to be carved and served. “Siger,” _Père_ said in his deep, comforting voice, “I have no idea what type of creature that might be.” “Possibly a beef roast” his _Père_ said uncertainly. 

Daddy peeked over the top of the book and added his two cents, “There are bananas around it.”

“Possibly,” _Père_ still sounded uncertain.

“Ham, then,” Daddy told them. “Bananas go with ham.”

“Bananas? And Ham?” Siger giggled at how shocked _Père_ sounded.

“You’ve never had ham with bananas? You’ve had it with raisin sauce, haven’t you?” Daddy grinned at them. Siger decided that Daddy was having a joke with _Père_.

“Nonsense,” scoffed _Père_. “Siger,” he turned and looked directly into Siger’s eyes, “This is an imaginary animal created by the author specifically for eating at Christmas. There is no correlation to anything in the real world.”

“Okay, _Père_ ,” Siger giggled. Then giggled some more when Daddy and _Père_ both tickled him into bed and under the covers.

There were kisses and “goodnight”s all around. The light was turned out, and the fairy lights switched on. Siger listened to his parents as they closed the door. “Honestly, Sherlock,” Daddy was saying, “‘an imaginary animal created by the author specifically for eating at Christmas?’ ‘No correlation?’”

 _Père_ replied, “Bananas with ham, John? Really!”

Their voices settled into that comfortable rumble that told Siger that they were home, and downstairs, and that he was ready for sleeping. And so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all real books. Check them out!


	21. Day Twenty-one:  Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wishing you all a blessed and happy Solstice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a friend who has a pet peeve about this being a shorter day. Because the "day" itself is still 24 hours give or take, and is not longer or shorter, even if we have more or less daylight or darkness.
> 
> This has been edited accordingly because it struck me as something that would be right for John explaining it to Siger. However, because of John's limitations, he can't quite manage it.

“Today is the Winter solstice, Siger,” John Watson told his son as he zipped up Siger’s light blue snow suit. John was wearing his parka already, but it wasn't zipped yet. Next came the little blue and white mittens that were attached with a line down inside each sleeve. Even so, Siger still managed to lose mittens in large quantities. John went on, “That means that today there will be more darkness than daylight. It is the shortest day of the year, and the longest night.”

“Why?” asked Siger gravely, as he watched his father slide the striped woolen mittens so that his thumbs ended up in their slot.

John Watson took a deep breath. He said carefully, “The earth - that’s the planet we live on - turns around the sun. That going around the sun is called an ‘orbit’. But the earth is tilted.” John leaned toward the side. "While it orbits, it also spins around itself, and each spin is one day."

Siger imitated his Daddy. John, feeling slightly relieved went on with his explanation. “It takes a whole year for the earth to do this. To orbit the sun. Over three hundred days! So at this point of the year, the Winter Solstice, our part of the earth is tipped away from the sun, and so we have Winter. And it gets cold.”

“Why?” asked Siger who had now cocked his head of red-coloured curls.

“Because,” John plowed on, “The sun is what gives us our heat. Remember in the Summer when it was all hot and lovely? You like the sunshine, right, Siger? And you know how it feels in the sun?”

“Yes,” said Siger doubtfully.

“Well, in the Summer, we’re closer to the sun, and so it gets hotter. In Winter we’re farther away, and it gets colder. And darker. So tonight will be a long night, with darkness early. But after today the nights will get shorter. Do you remember when you had to go to bed last summer, and it was still light outside? That was because we were close to the Summer Solstice, and the daylight was with us longer.”

Siger thought a bit. Then he said steadily and sing-song, , “In winter I get up at night and dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.”

John cleared his throat. “Er. Yes.” 

“ _Père_ read us a poem about it. It was longer. That is all I remember,” Siger nodded wisely. For _Père_ knew so very many things, of course he would know about this.

John Watson hummed rather than comment. “Alright Siger, time for your hat.” He pressed the royal blue, woolen knit cap down over the red curls, and then, pulling on his own gloves and hat, he and Siger made their way down the wooden steps to where Sherlock waited with Rosalind and Miranda, bundled in the perambulator in a myriad of colours. 

Their small family were on their way to Primrose Hill in Regent’s Park to watch the sun set. As they walked, John's gloved hand holding Siger’s mittened one, and Sherlock pushing the pram, the shorter man gave his partner a sidewise glance. “Siger says you told him about the solstice last summer.”

“The what?” Sherlock Holmes asked startled.

“The solstice. Today is the Winter solstice.” John replied.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, John. I thought were we going to see the sunset in Regent’s Park,” Sherlock answered him.

“And you don’t know if any reason why I would want to do this today?” John asked him.

“I can think of none,” the taller of the two said with surprise.

“Well,” John gave it up for a bad deal. “He said you told him a poem last summer. About having to sleep by day.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Well, yes. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a poem about the frustrations of going to sleep when there's so much going on. I’ve been reading _**A Child’s Garden of Verses**_ to him off and on for a while now. It’s not _**Treasure Island**_ , but we’ll get there eventually.”

And while they all walked together, Sherlock recited the poem for his family.

“In winter I get up at night  
And dress by yellow candle-light.  
In summer, quite the other way,  
I have to go to bed by day

I have to go to bed and see  
The birds still hopping on the tree,  
Or hear the grown-up people's feet  
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,  
When all the sky is clear and blue,  
And I should like so much to play,  
To have to go to bed by day?”

John supposed that was the perfect poem for Sherlock to begin with, and for today, for all the topsy-turviness of it being the opposing Solstice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert Louis Stevenson's _**A Child's Garden of Verses**_ is filled with lovely stories about the imagination of childhood. Please check it out!


	22. Day Twenty-two:  Communication is Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans for Christmas dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies. I started a chapter, and it became quite long and involved. And so it will be posted as a separate story altogether.

What with the flu, there had been little to no discussion about what they would be eating for Christmas Lunch. When John asked Siger what he liked best to eat for Christmas, the answer had been, “Cake, Daddy.”

“Yes, sweet, but what else would you like for Christmas dinner?” John Watson was at his doctorly best, with, “We can’t just eat cake for dinner, Siger.”

“Daddy,” Siger said with great disappointment, “You asked me what I like best to eat.”

John sighed, “Sherlock, what would you like for Christmas lunch?”

Sherlock Holmes, his head bent over the microscope on the kitchen table, did not answer. It might be that he was deep in concentration. However, John had seen the slight twitch the consulting detective had given. Even John could not miss it. Siger had seen it as well.

“Pere,” his son chided his father, “Daddy asked you a question. You are not in your Mind Palace.”

“Cake,” Sherlock offered.

“That’s it,” John said, “We’re having fish fingers and custard.”

Another twitch from his spouse. Siger thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, Daddy.” He went back to the sitting room to play Dread Pirate with the mermaids there - both the one inching around on the carpet barefooted, and the other who was sitting on her nappy throwing blocks about the room.

“I know you are joking,” Sherlock raised his head. “Even from you, fish fingers and custard sounds particularly vomitous.”

“Cultural reference,” John told him, putting the kettle on for tea.

Sherlock sighed. Then he said, slowly and heavily, “We have been invited to Mycroft’s for Christmas Lunch this year.”

John stared at the man. “When did Mycroft invite us?”

“Oh, some time ago. Before we had the flu,” his partner said waving a hand in the air.

“I’ve been asking you for input on Christmas lunch all week,” the shorter man said with frustration.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock replied, “But I believe the invitation was through Alice Brown, and I just remember seeing the text she sent out before calling in sick with the flu. You can find it on my phone. And yours if I remember correctly.”

John went for his mobile, and scrolled down through the “read” messages. Yes, there were quite a few that he did not remember seeing. But apparently Sherlock had been checking them. And unsurprisingly, answering them. In John’s voice at least. To be fair, they were all dated from when John had been out of his head with flu.

“Alright,” John said as he turned off the kettle and prepared two mugs of tea, “Did ‘we’ reply to the invitation?”

“of course not, John,” Sherlock said wearily, pushing his microscope aside. “I was a trifle busy at the time.”

There was quiet. Then a mug of hot, sweet tea was placed in front of the detective. “I was not complaining,” John said as he took his place in the next seat. A sip of hot milky orange pekoe produced a sigh of happiness.

Holmes took the time to enjoy the flavor of tea with just the right amount of honey. It was just warm enough, without burning his mouth. Then he said, “In fact, you were complaining. But you wisely used logic to see my side of the issue. The question now is whether or not you would like to eat a British beef roast with Yorkshire pudding expertly cooked by either Anna or Mycroft at my brother’s establishment, or go through the bother of catering a meal here. I highly doubt that either of us are either in the mood, or up for the effort of cooking a large and involved dinner that only you will really appreciate.”

John began to laugh. “Do you think there will be cake?” he asked with a chuckle.

“John,” Sherlock said reproachfully, “This is Mycroft.”


	23. Day Twenty-three:  Gifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an idea about gifts. And a new and different outlook on Mycroft and Greg.
> 
> In other words, John has been Thinking...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something they want, something they need. Something to wear, and something to read.

It was a difficult task. But someone had to do it. That someone was Dr. John H. Watson. Because Sherlock was damned well not going to. 

John cornered his spouse in the bedroom. Well, actually, he flopped over on the just waking consulting detective, his shorter, compact body, on top of his lover’s tall, spare one. One leery eye glared at the doctor from just above the covers. “Well?” Sherlock did not sound excited to be woken by his partner, in spite of the positioning.

“Good morning,” John said a chipper as a London sparrow waiting for a crumb of doughnut to be dropped.

“We both know that you are going to bother me with something I don’t wish to discuss. What is it?” rumbled out Sherlock’s morning voice.

“How do you know?” John asked, smiling pleasantly, “Perhaps I just fancy a bit of fun time with my spouse of a morning?”

A groan, then, “This is not your usual ‘let’s wake Sherlock up for some coital engagement’. This is your ‘I’ve got you, Holmes, and you can’t get away until we discuss this taboo subject’. It’s obvious, John.”

“Fair enough,” John grinned.

“No.”

“No, what?” the blond-haired man asked with a smile.

“No, I don’t want to discuss anything to do with my brother while we’re in bed together,” Sherlock told him.

“You don’t want to discuss anything to do with Mycroft ever,” John said, though Sherlock scarcely needed to be reminded of that.

“What is it?” Sherlock groaned, coming out from under the duvet and sheets, “So that I can go back to sleep.”

“Presents.” It was said short and sweet.

“John. We’re already going to his house for Christmas dinner. We have the photograph of the children with Father Christmas wrapped and ready for Siger to give to him. We’ve got the marzipan ornaments for him and for Lestrade. What else do we need to do for my brother and his husband for the season?” The reasonable words were delivered in a grumbling tone.

John Watson rested his chin on Sherlock’s chest. “Well, it’s Christmas presents. And I’ve never had a brother before. Now I have two. And I think we should give them something special.”

“Does this mean I have to motivate myself to find a gift for your sister, Harriet?” Sherlock sounded horrified.

“We have done. We’re giving her a lovely cashmere scarf and glove set - since she loses her gloves every year,” John told him.

Sherlock huffed, “She leaves them at work, and the custodian steals them.”

“That’s as may be,” John responded, “But as special as the marzipan ornaments are, I’d like to give Mycroft and Greg something else this year.”

“Sex toys?” suggested his recumbent partner.

“No.” 

“Well, what would you like to give them?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, with the baby coming in a couple of months, I thought we could get them a set of the Harry Potter books in hardcover. And wands,” John added.

“Wands? What? Magic wands?” Sherlock sounded startled.

John nodded, “Not like a magician’s wand. But like in the books. There’s a place online that has them, and they have a bricks and mortar shop in London.”

Sherlock blinked up at John. “What is the significance?”

“I thought you said you’d read the books?” John prodded.

“I told you I deleted all knowledge of them,” Sherlock pointed out, "Not that I had ever read them to begin with. It's difficult not to hear about them when people yammer on so."

John sighed. “We should start reading the first book to Siger in the evenings. Or to each other. While the girls are playing on the floor. The wands signify traits of the wizard. Like blackthorn for a warrior, or cherrywood for self-control.”

“You’ve been on that Pottermore site again, haven’t you?” Sherlock said suspiciously. 

“I thought you deleted all of that stuff,” chided John.

“I did my best,” Sherlock said loftily. 

“Besides,” John told him, “How often do people get frivolous things for Mycroft?”

“That’s what his husband is for, John, not his brother-in-law. And you’ve already been the mastermind behind the marzipan ornaments, which are truly something that Mycroft appreciated last year.” And then, because Sherlock’s mind began to click through the entire conversation it occurred to the man that his own partner might wish for one of these ‘wands’ for himself. “This is what I will agree to. For Christmas, we will give the gifts we currently have. Then, after Christmas we will invite Mycroft and Lestrade to see the movie that you are so set on viewing. Is that acceptable?”

John thought about it a moment. “Deal.”

Sherlock raised his head enough to kiss those familiar lips. “Not a deal. But a promise. Now, unfortunately, I hear Siger on the monitor, which means no time for me to practice ‘wandlery’, or whatever it’s called, on you.”

John Watson giggled. Sherlock loved that sound. “Alright,” John said, sitting back, “I’ll get started on breakfast, while you get the children going.”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock told him. 

Upstairs in the nursery, while he was choosing clothing for the girls for the day (Siger generally chose his own), he slipped _**Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone**_ from its place on the shelf. Best to do some research before he chose a wand for John’s Christmas gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my knowledge there is not actually a brick and mortar wand shop in London. In Real London, or London Above.


	24. Day Twenty-four: Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the evergreen tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness of this chapter! I've been doing a lot of looking for the good in the year. It's there. We need to not let the sad times overwhelm those good things.
> 
> Merry Christmas, and a joyous 2017 to you all!

“Do you have a nice dog?” Siger asked as the men stood back to view their handiwork. The long needled fir reached for the ceiling, stopping short enough to support whatever topper the family might choose.

“What’s that?” the bigger man turned turned his craggy face to look down at the little boy. He unsuccessfully dusted his hands together to rid them of pine sap. “My dog? He’s a good one, yeah.”

“Bit yappy,” said the other, much thinner man next to him, giving his partner a clap on the blue-plaid flanneled shoulder.

Siger smiled. He looked tiny next to the delivery men, with his wild red curls and footie pajamas. Plush violin tucked under his arm, he asked, “What is his name?”

The big man laughed, “Samson, for all he looks like a little lion. How did you know I had a dog, little lad?”

Siger’s serious response was, “There is a dog’s hair in the cuffs of your trousers, with needles from our fir tree. Needles from more than one type of fir tree. Pere took me to the arboretum to learn about evergreens. Are you brothers?”

“Yes, this is my baby brother, Ben,” was said with a grin. “For all that he’s not a baby anymore. A right good little detective you are, aren’t you?” 

Siger smiled back at the delivery man shyly. “Thank you, sir.”

“And well mannered too,” said Ben, as he knelt to gather up bits of plastic twine and needle clumps.

Ross and Miri, who’d been gathered up themselves into the Pack and Play, were watching the entire delivery of the pine tree with large eyes from their seats in the Graco. Miri gurgled loudly. “Gggggggggggm,” she commented.

Siger translated, “Miri does not understand why there is a tree in the sitting room.”

“This your sisters’ first Christmas, then?” the thin man, Ben, asked.

“No,” Siger explained, “They were little babies last Christmas.”

“Best make it a good one, then,” said big Tom.

“Best make every Christmas a good one,” his partner pointed out.

The delivery men shared a grin. “Words to live by,” Tom said seriously to Siger. 

Siger’s Daddy, who had offered tea, brought in mugs for the men. “There you go Tom, Ben. That tree looks lovely,” John Watson told them. “The greens did well too,” the doctor indicated the decorations on the mantel and out the doorway to the stairwell. 

“It’s a good job in this season,” Big Tom told them as they stood around admiring the plump, fragrant tree. “All the Christmas joy, you see.”

Ben nodded, “Young Siger should see little Samson racing about under the branches of our tree. Like a kid, he is. Our babies are all grown, but don’t have children of their own yet. So the wives like a bit of life, and Samson answers the bill.”

John bent down and gave Siger a hug. “We have a lot of life around here. Don’t we Siger?”

“Yes,” Siger said, “Although a dog would be nice. It could help with Ross and Miri.”

“How’s that?” John asked him, torn between amused and concerned - for they really did not need another inhabitant in 221.

“There was that dog in the doc,” Siger hesitated, then got it out slowly, “doc-u-men-ta-ry that I watched with Pere. He lived on a boat, and kept the babies from falling into the water. He was black, but little. Like Samson. Only Samson is yellow.”

Big Tom asked, “Do you need to keep this lot out of the water then?”

“Well,” Siger said considering, “They only go in the water when they are mermaids. And then it is the carpet, not really water.”

“Then you might want to wait a bit to get a dog. That’s serious business, a dog is. Not something you can just go out and buy at Tescos, then get rid of when you’re busy and can’t care for it,” Tom told the little boy with a touch of seriousness.

Ben leaned over and said quietly in John’s ear, “Samson’s a rescue. Tom feels strongly.”

“Ah,” John responded. Then he picked up his boy, “We’re a bit busy to take care of a dog, Siger, sweet. I’d rather focus on doing things with you and Miri Cat and Ross Love.”

Siger leaned his curly haired head against his Daddy’s shoulder. “Alright, Daddy.” It didn’t sound whiny, but more a little sad. 

Tom seemed to be thinking better of his previous strong statement. “Well, there are ways of helping out at a shelter if you’d like to take care of some dogs, little lad.” Turning to John he said, “They call it ‘socialization’. People spending time with cats and dogs. And other animals, truth be told. I can give you the number if you’d like.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” John told him, giving Siger a squeeze. 

Miri waved a butterfly rattle, cooing from where she stood, holding onto the rim of the Pack and Play. 

Sherlock Holmes came home from last minute Christmas shopping to find his family beneath the Christmas tree. Siger was attempting to teach Miranda to say, “woof”, and crawl instead of inch about. Rosalind sat and contemplated her newly redecorated kingdom while chewing on one of Siger’s rubber bees. 

“John,” he called, “Why is it that we buy Rosalind her own toys, and she insists on playing with Siger’s?”

John Watson appeared in the kitchen doorway drying his hands on a tea towel. “I expect she likes whatever Siger plays with. Miri too.”

Sherlock took his arm and moved into the kitchen. “Do you think that Rosalind might be delayed?” he asked in a hushed voice.

John’s black look in return, “On Christmas Eve you ask me this?” he said darkly. 

“It’s just,” Sherlock Holmes reached for notebooks he kept on top of the fridge, “John, look at these notes.” The pages were spread open. “Miranda and Rosalind are all over the map as far as benchmarks are concerned. Not at the steadily increasing rate that Siger grew. I’ve noticed it, and been meaning to speak to you about it. At least Miranda is moving, even if she’s crawling about like an inchworm. I was expecting them to be crawling backward, as Siger did at this point. Miranda is making sounds a little more quickly than Siger had done. Rosalind isn’t even moving, except to roll about. And she’s not making any of the pre-verbal sounds that Miranda is. She refuses to sign.”

“Sherlock, they’re both well within the limits for their age. They’re proceeding differently because they’re different people. With separate experiences from Siger,” John had spent his own time considering Ross’s behavior. He’d spoken to the pediatrician about it, and had planned for what points to bring up with his partner. “Ross is always watching. Siger, you, me, everyone who comes into the flat. Ross watches them. She’s alert. And we know that she talks to Miranda. Well, makes sounds at Miranda when they’re in bed at night, or first thing in the morning. We hear that through the monitor.”

“Is it that we gave Siger so much more attention?” Sherlock Holmes asked tensely. “Do you think Miranda and Rosalind are getting shorted in enrichment?”

“Next you’re going to blame their genetics, aren’t you?” John said mock sternly.

“No!” Sherlock sounded shocked, “Of course it isn’t. What are you on about, John?”

“I was joking,” John said, pulling his madman close, “There’s nothing wrong. You’re looking at too many of the particles instead of the whole organism. They’re happy. They’re healthy. They’ll talk when it’s right for them. They’ll crawl and stand and walk when it’s right for them. And they’ll both do it differently. Don’t worry.”

The tall, dark-curled man put his own arms about his spouse. Speaking into John’s sand-coloured hair he said softly, “We didn’t even give them a first birthday party.”

John leaned into the embrace. “So we didn’t. Wasn’t a good time for it, was it? What with flu and kidnapping. We’ll have to plan one for after the holidays. A bit bigger than the ‘cake and ice cream at home’ we had originally thought of.”

There was a huff of agreement into his hair. John pulled away so that he could reach up and kiss his husband softly. This was, Sherlock Holmes thought, one of the better parts of being married.

“Père! Regardez Miranda être un chien!” sounded Siger’s treble from the sitting room.

Siger was trying to pet his sister, saying, “Bon Miranda! Bon chiot!” as his sister crawled across the room toward the hallway. 

“Miri Cat!” and “Miranda!” the men said together, watching her crawl, speeding up as she got some space from the long hall. Looking up, the little blonde girl gurgled, changed course, and made her way over to her parents in the kitchen doorway. 

“Bbbbbbbb!” Miranda told them, as she clumsily sat back on her rump and lifted arms to be picked up.

“You pick her up,” John said, “and I’ll mark it in her book.”

Meanwhile, Ross blew a raspberry and threw the rubber bee down the hallway for Siger to fetch.

Later, as John and Sherlock were dressing the tree, John filled in Siger’s great dinner time explanation about the setting up of the Christmas tree, about Big Tom, and Thin Ben, and their dog, Samson. “Tom gave me a list of shelters and rescue places where Siger could help out a bit,” he finished.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Sherlock said slowly as he twined glittering red garland around the tree, “If we made sure the girls are used to animals as well.”

“Of course,” John said. He stood back and admired their work. “Do you see any bald spots?” he asked.

“I think we have it well covered. There’s a spot of Siger to hang his ornament, and space for him to help his sisters with theirs,” Sherlock mused as he picked up the star that would sit on top this year. 

The coloured fairy lights blinked at them as the pair tidied the boxes and wrappings away. Presents and stockings were put out, and a fire laid in the hearth for the morning. John fetched cut-out Christmas cookies from the kitchen, while Sherlock poured them each a measure of brandy, and they settled onto the couch to view their masterpiece. 

The brandy was good. The cookies were decorated by Siger and Bert, and tasted of butter, sugar, and vanilla. The tree was not grand, but it was homey. Each year saw new ornaments added. Some contained memories of Christmas past - three small handprints in plaster circled just below the star. The bottom branches were laden with bells and less breakable items.

They talked of past Christmases, both their own as children, as as parents. It was with a sense of accomplishment that they eventually turned out the lights, and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A puppy, like a baby, is not something to take on lightly. Every year companion animals grow out of that cute baby stage, and end up in facilities looking to be re-homed.
> 
> Please consider supporting those agencies in your community. It's not the animals' faults that they end up dropped off, thrown out, or - worse - disposed of when people grow tired of them. Also... Redbeard is deliberately not mentioned. Later story for that.


	25. Day Twenty-five: Christmas Day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are the same each year, and some things change.

John woke to hear murmuring, Siger’s sweet, high, clear voice, Miri’s burbling attempts at copying her brother’s speech patterns, and Ross’s distinctive hum. Someday the monitor would no longer be necessary. He would miss it. The doctor shifted, but could not move much. His husband, the giant consulting octopus, was constricting him, and an additional layer of fine cotton sheeting swaddled about them both, reminding him of a distorted movie mummy.

Well, there would be no breakfast in bed this year. Snuggling was good though. And his spouse was definitely showing signs of waking up interested. John gave a little push backward with his rear. Sherlock’s chuckle moved the hair behind John’s ear. “Siger,” the warm, dark murmur came, “Just told his sisters he’ll come down and discover what is keeping Daddy and Père, John. No time for that.”

John gave a grumbling laugh while fighting his way out of the binding sheets. Three small, distinct taps sounded at the wood of the bedroom door. “Come in, Siger,” Sherlock called from where he was reclining and watching his husband with a grin.

A wide-eyed face topped by red curls peeked around the door. _“Daddy! Père! L'arbre de Noël!”_

John opened his pajama clad arms in invitation, and Siger bounded through the door and onto the big antique bed into them. “Did you snoop?” John asked the top of his son’s head.

“Nope,” Siger popped the ‘p’, very pleased with himself, “‘cause there will be breakfast first, right Daddy?”

Breakfast there was. Not a full English, but certainly bacon, and beans on toast, which suited Siger. And it was enjoyed on the floor of the front room with everyone in their night clothes (though with freshly changed nappies for the girls). Ross seized the opportunity to roll toward the piles of presents. Sherlock snatched her up again and again, a game - little, dark-haired girl in a red and blue striped onesie rolling about, and her father, wearing his gorgeous brocaded dressing gown over well-worn tee shirt and pajama bottoms leaning over to pick the girl up and blow a raspberry against her cotton clad belly before setting her down on her Aunt Harriet’s afghan in front of the couch.

Miri giggled and shouted, while Siger sang Christmas carols with his mouth full of beans. John strove to keep the tablecloth covering the sitting room floor orderly and out of the way of his rambunctious spouse and offspring.

Presents? There were presents! They opened their stockings first- with the girls finding items that were of more interest to one-year-olds than when they were infants the last Christmas. Siger “helped” them sort their treasures into polished wooden bowls, The little ones weren’t allowed oranges yet, but polished and shiny red apples began to roll about the floor with Miri inching along after them. Ross elected to sit up in the middle of the carpet and throw things instead of her usual rolling about. Siger danced about on small feet covered in fluffy bee slippers as he tried to interest his sisters in the presents he’d selected for them. Books, of course. Each item opened was examined with the greatest interest by its intended recipient while John kept track on a tablet for “thank you”s later on.

John and Sherlock exchanged the not-quite-a-surprise of DNA Ancestry tests - multiple versions so that the results could be compared. Siger shouted in joy at a series of musical cds - instrumental and choral - that he insisted Sherlock put on the player immediately. Their boy did get toys and books as well, but the CDs were the highlight of his gift receiving that year. This year Siger's marzipan ornament was a musical note. "A quarternote, Daddy!" he called, dancing about the room in flannel pjs with the ornament dangling from his fingers. 

Miri and Ross gnawed on bright rubber parrots that seemed to have escaped from a pirate ship by virtue of their eye-patched faces. Siger had chosen those because, as he told his Pere, “‘Soon as they can walk the plank, we can make them part of our pirate crew!” Siger also volunteered to hang the girls' ornaments - a white and a red rose respectively, but not before Ross had taken a bite out of hers, to Siger's dismay.

Then came the grand preparation for Christmas Luncheon at Uncle Mycroft’s. All three children were popped into the long bathtub by their Père, while John muttered his way through cleaning up the disaster scene that was the front room. Washed and dried by Sherlock with shrieks of laughter, John then took the children up the creaking wooden staircase to the nursery for dressing in Christmas clothes, while Sherlock took his turn at the shower. This was by design, as the long, curly-haired detective took a considerably longer time messing about with his shaving and his hair.

Corralled afterward in the front room, Miri and Ross fussed with the unexpectedly finery of lace and frills. A bright red hem was stuffed into Ross’s mouth with a pudgy hand. Miri examined the lace muttering quietly. While their father tightened his bow strings, and began a series of sprightly flourishes on his violin, Siger smoothed his dress trousers, matching Sherlock’s, trying not to crease his fine new clothing. John disappeared into the bath. Siger could just hear him singing a Christmas carol under his .Père’s music.

A taxi transported three wildly excited children and their parents, all to Mycroft’s “flat”, where they were welcomed by a rather large group of individuals. Aunty Harriet was already there. Siger was overjoyed to discover cousins Em and Danny were jumping about behind Uncle Greg while waiting for Siger to take off his coat for Uncle Mycroft to hang up in the coat closet.

“Siger!” Danny was shouting over the adults, “Em got dinosaurs for Christmas!”

Chattering adults - Greg and his sister, Emma and Daniel’s parents, and an older family friend who was the cousins’ caretaker during the week, followed along, shifting infants from person to person, amid exclamations over the Christmas dresses, and John’s traditional ugly Christmas sweater. Canapes and drinks were served by hired staff. Sherlock whispered to John, pointing out their secrets. 

Luncheon interrupted Em and Siger and Danny’s dinosaur adventure in the parlor. Ross and Miri had been assigned status as small mammals. They neither complained nor did much to take on their roles, being more interested in attempting to get at the blown ornaments gracing the large blue spruce gated off in the corner.

A huge beef roast graced the center of the table. Brown, crisp fat gleamed in decoration of the large bones of the roast, filling the air with a savory odor. “Daddy?” Siger’s attempt at a polite whisper over the buzz of conversation failed somewhat, as it came during a momentary lull. “Do I have to try everything?”

“No, Sweet,” his father leaned over to give full attention, “Let me know what you would like to try, and we’ll see if you like it.”

Siger liked almost everything. He had small, browned potatoes, roasted along with the beef. A plate of chipolatas was demolished by the three children. Sprouts dressed with slips of carrot and balsamic vinegar were tested and found wanting, though Siger had liked them before. Mushrooms simmered in wine were enjoyed more by the adults than the children. 

Flaming pudding topped with holly leaves frightened the two littlest girls, bringing shrieks and tears until John and Aunty Harry removed Ross and Miri.

Seated;in a cane bottomed rocking chair, a sniffling Ross, leaned over a nappy covered shoulder, Harry smiled at her brother. “Not one for brandy sauce right now anyway. Life is good, eh?” She rubbed circles on the little girl’s back.

“In spite of the tears? Yeah, Harry. Life is good.” John was changing Miri’s diaper on the full-sized bottom of the bunk bed. “Who’d have thought we’d end up like this?”

“Not me, Johnny,” Harry rocked her niece, who was on her way to sleep. “Wouldn’t trade it though. Not now. You?”

“I don’t know if all the kidnappings were necessary,” John grinned.

“You and your crazy man. Don’t you worry about keeping the kids safe?” Harry didn’t know the meaning of subtlety, but she did try for a conciliatory tone.

John sighed. “All the time. Still. If not for my crazy man, none of this would have happened. He’s worth it, Harry. He and the kids.”

Nodding at her brother, Harry snuggles against the baby on her shoulder. Their conversation went on, quietly, until the two girls had fallen asleep, and were safely ensconced in the Pack and Play. They left the room darkened and quiet to join the rest of the family.

Mycroft’s and Greg’s house accommodated the relatively small number of people gracefully. Ross and Miri asleep in the children’s room. Siger and Em and Danny continued their building of a dinosaur village in the parlor under the supervision of Sherlock, whose slender fingers took copious notes on his mobile as he observed their play. Most of the rest of the adults congregated in the movie room to watch The Kingsman, James Bond, and A Christmas Carol. Mycroft ghosted about from room to room, playing host, supplying drink and eventual food, and giving himself the necessary space to maintain his equilibrium in this invasion of goldfish into his very private life. Greg caught him in the foyer, pulling his partner into a quiet snog in relative privacy. “Happy Christmas, love,” Greg spoke close and quiet.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “It is a very happy Christmas.”

The sentiment was echoed hours later as Sherlock and John bundled their three into their own beds up in the quiet, darkened nursery. “This was,” Sherlock rumbled to his lover, “A not particularly annoying holiday.”

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John replied with a quick kiss.

“Happy Christmas, John.” Sherlock leaned his head forward to rest his forehead against the broad forehead of his doctor.

“Happy Christmas,” came from Siger’s side of the room. “Daddy, Père. I love you. Happy Christmas.”

Kisses were exchanged, the monitor turned on, and the lights turned off. “Happy Christmas,” the parents said again, though one of them hated repeating himself, “Good night, Siger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for taking so very long to finish this. Work is a thing. And Life.


End file.
